The Ember Covenant
by Hanyolo
Summary: Dragons have returned to Skyrim, and three unlikely heroes - a wandering mercenary, a disgraced scoundrel, and a misanthropic sorceress - find themselves caught up in the winding threads of destiny. Threatened by the end of time itself, they must unite in order to stoke Skyrim's dying flame.
1. Home

_Imperial archers sure can hit a moving target_, Hadvar thought, watching their arrows find their mark. The fleeing horse thief slammed to the ground, two bolts in his back, wheezing his last few breaths. Not a single soul in the courtyard paid him a second thought.

A strange calmness wafted through the air that even the untimely fate of the late Lokir of Rorikstead could not puncture. Hadvar could scarcely believe it when Ulfric Stormcloak himself, bound and gagged yet remaining resplendent regardless, stepped down from the carriage and walked purposefully to the gathering crowd of the condemned. Hadvar's voice trembled slightly as he read the Jarl's name aloud, knowing full well that he was an accessory to the death of one of Skyrim's last, greatest heroes. This man should not die in Helgen: it was barely more than an Imperial-fortified village. He should face trial in Solitude, or the Imperial city itself, and let the Elder Council decide his fate.

Ulfric did not even acknowledge Hadvar as he strode past. The same was not true for his lieutenant, Ralof of Riverwood, who glared accusatorially at Hadvar as he stalked over to join his king. Hadvar had known Ralof: they had grown tall and strong together, brothers all but in name, former friends separated by the hatreds bred of civil war. Just like countless others across Skyrim. _Ulfric is tearing our land apart_, he wanted to plead to Ralof as he passed, _can't you see_? But like any disciplined soldier of the Empire, he simply read the accused man's name aloud and kept his anguish to himself.

Hadvar did not have time to comment on the death of a kinsman before the last passenger stepped down from the carriage. He looked down at his list to see that it had ended with Lokir. He could feel the disdain emanating from his commanding officer at his left, a brash imperial captain, as she ordered the prisoner forward. Hadvar opened his mouth and formed his curiosity into words.

"Who are you?"

The prisoner was fairly tall, with sandy-brown hair that fell matted around wiry shoulders. His face was gaunt and guarded, with a trace of a beard, his jawline taut like a coiled spring, distinctly Nordic. His soft green eyes and slender, outwardly-curved nose, however, bespoke of some other blood, as did his height - below average for a Nord. He was young: pride born of youth dominated his visage, but did not completely mask his cold fear. Over his right eye he wore distinctive blue war paint, two jagged lines that zig-zagged from his forehead down one cheek.

The man uttered his name. It was a short name, quick and harsh. "Jakt."

"Seems he was caught trying to cross the border, just before throwing in with the Stormcloaks," muttered the soldier who had escorted the prisoners. Hadvar looked at the young man and tried to keep the pity off his face. Perhaps he had simply been trying to return home and had lacked the coin to pay for the cross. It was not a crime befitting of death, but luck, it seemed, was not on this boy's side. He turned to his captain, uncertainty thick in his voice.

"He's not on the list,"

The Captain shrugged, her eyes cold as steel upon his. "Forget your list. He goes to the block, like the rest."

Hadvar heard a sharp intake of breath, but he could not meet the young man's eyes. "By your orders, captain." At the last minute he looked up and said, "You picked a bad time to come to Skyrim, kinsman. I'm sorry. At least you'll die here, at home."

* * *

_A Nord's last thoughts should be of home_, Ralof had said to Lokir and Jakt. As he stepped towards the block, Jakt found cynicism a better comfort. _I have no home,_ he thought bitterly, _certainly not with the Empire that has forsaken me, and my ancestors_. He had come to Skyrim to find one, but the Empire was about to take that fervent dream with the swing of an axe. The irony of his fate danced around him, mocking and untouchable.

He marched behind the captain as he joined the other condemned prisoners. A grey haired imperial, clearly one of high rank judging by his gilded armor, was face to face with Ulfric. Ralof had given his name as they had entered Helgen, but Jakt could not remember it. His voice rang hard as he first addressed Ulfric, and then the crowd: he spoke of restoring the peace, but Jakt did not listen to his lies. Instead, he thought he heard a faint roar, or a screech, coming from beyond the mountains. No one paid it any mind.

Soon his little speech was over, and the first Stormcloak took the block, his nose high and his manner brusque, as if his own execution simply bored him. When he spoke the name of Talos aloud, cutting off the priestess as she spoke his last rites, Jakt silently applauded his audacity to thumb his nose at the Empire, and their Thalmor allies, even at the moment of his death. The Headsman was quick, at least. Growing up on the streets of the imperial city, Jakt had seen the High Elves root out Talos worship on more than one occasion. It was often a gruesome spectacle, much more so than a quick decapitation. As soldiers from both sides shouted in defiance or approval, he heard Ralof mutter a quick word after the axe came down and the man's head rolled into the bucket: "As fearless in death as he was in life."

Then it was Jakt's turn, and as he approached the block, he thought he heard the same roar, louder this time, over the pounding of his heart in his ears. It was unlike any he'd ever heard, somehow ancient and primeval, and when others began to mutter and glance about, he knew that he was not the only one privy to the sound. At least I won't die a crazy man, he thought as the captain's armored boot forced his foot forward. Hesitant to gaze upon the severed head in the bucket below, he chanced one final glance up into the headsman's hooded face, but his eyes were cold, with no mercy to be found. Helgen's central watchtower loomed in the background as the axe rose. He felt calm, despite the black taste of fear that choked his throat. I will die in Skyrim, that much is true.

All of a sudden, a shadow filled the air, along with the leathery sound of flapping wings. Something gigantic and silhouetted landed on the tower, shrouded by some otherworldly force. The ground rumbled as it landed, as the air crackled with a dozen gasps and cries. The axe faltered and then disappeared. Before Jakt could get a better look at the creature, it opened its mouth and shouted some phrase in an indecipherable tongue. There was a crack of thunder and some unseen wall of pure force blew him off of the block and sent him hurtling to the ground. His head clunked against hard, cold dirt and everything went black.

_…Mommy?_

_Yes, child?_

_The soldiers, why are they leaving?_

_They are going home._

_Is daddy going home too?_

_Yes, child._

_Why can't we go with him?_

_Because this is our home._

_No it isn't. It doesn't feel like home_.

"Wake up, brother!"

The blond Stormcloak, Ralof, hoisted Jakt to his feet. Somehow he'd managed to free his hands. "Come on kinsman, the Gods won't give us another chance!"

Jakt spared a glance at the monster sitting atop the tower. Dark clouds swirled around a colossal, horned head, black as night except for two beady red eyes. Reaching out its arms it revealed two massive wings so wide they seemed to blot out the sun. Its body was as dark as its head, with scales that looked tougher than any steel, and horned ridges that erupted from its spine all down its massive back. It opened its cavernous mouth to reveal teeth the size of a man's arm.

Jakt decided he'd had enough of a glimpse, so he turned and raced after Ralof. "Quick!" shouted the fair-haired Nord, "Into the tower!" As they sprinted away he thought he heard a low rumble, as if the beast were speaking. All of a sudden cries of "Kill it! Kill the monster!" turned to screams, as the air crackled and heated. Jakt did not need to look back to know it must have breathed fire. He found it awkward and difficult to run with both hands tied together, but he followed Ralof at a dead sprint into the nearest guard tower, entering just in time to witness one Stormcloak tending to the wounded body of another. Ulfric Stormcloak stood over them, his hands and face free, turning away only when Ralof addressed him directly.

"Jarl Ulfric!" Ralof began, "What is that thing? Could the legends be true?"

The Jarl fixed an icy gaze on his subordinate. "Legends don't burn down villages." His voice was rough and deep, like a boulder rolling against stone. He turned to regard Jakt; when their eyes met, Jakt thought he saw something, some flicker in the man's eye. Then the beast roared again, and Ralof grabbed hold of Jakt's arm, shouting into his face, "Quickly! Up the tower!"

The blond nord dashed up the stairs. As he followed, Jakt chanced a quick look backwards to see Ulfric's eyes still fixed on him. There was no time to wonder, however, because right as Ralof reached the first landing, a great crack split the air, followed by a crunch. Jakt watched in horror as the wall exploded inwards, throwing Ralof to the floor. The monster's head filled the newly-created hole as it opened its jaws to take in a great breath, rumbled in its imperceptible language, and sent a great gout of fire pouring forth. Jakt threw himself backwards just in time to avoid the deadly flame, but the white-hot fire danced in his vision, blinding him. He could only sit there, curled into a fetal position as the fiery barrage continued. He could feel the heat as it melted the wood and the stone that made up the second floor landing. Then, it was gone.

By some stroke of divine providence, Ralof was unhurt, albeit covered in soot; the force of the exploding wall had thrown him clear of the beast's flame. Jakt struggled upright. Ralof ran to the window and gestured frantically. "See the inn on the other side? If we can make it there, it's a straight shot to the fort. Jump through and just keep moving!"

Jakt looked downwards to the first floor, but Ulfric Stormcloak was long gone. He shot Ralof a desperate look, unable to find the words to express his pulsating fear, but his fellow Nord simply grinned, nodded his head and patted him on the shoulder. Terror almost took control then, but somehow Jakt forced it down, turned to the window, and took a running leap. The soft hay roof rushed up to meet him and helped to slow the fall, but he landed hard regardless, plunging through the roof and onto the second floor of the inn. As he landed he forced himself into a roll, absorbing the brunt of the impact, but his bound hands made his body's trajectory hard to control, and his awkward roll turned into more of a tumble.

Once again Jakt forced himself to his feet, shrugging off the pain, before slumping desperately around the second floor of the burning, dilapidated inn. The staircase was in shambles, so he dropped through a hole in the floor. Ralof had not followed him, but there was no time to go back, he had to get out of the burning building…

Outside, he found himself facing a motley crew of Imperial soldiers and archers. Several yards away, in the middle of the courtyard, a young boy crouched crying in front of a scorched, broken man, whose leg was bent back at an impossible angle. Somehow he was still moving, waving the boy away frantically, tears of pain in his eyes. The Nord soldier from earlier, who had looked on Jakt with kind eyes, stood near the burning inn, his sword drawn. He was gesturing just as frantically at the little boy, crying his name, trying to save him. All of a sudden the monster landed in front of the man and the child and sucked in its breath. The boy, finally understanding, turned and ran, and Jakt could only watch as flame from the beast's mouth engulfed the man. He looked frantically for Ralof, or one of the other blue-clad Stormcloaks, but they were nowhere to be seen. Out of options, he followed the remaining soldiers behind the cover of a burning house. The familiar Nord soldier turned to him then, his eyes flashing as he recognized him.

"Still alive, prisoner?" He asked incredulously, "Follow me if you want to stay that way!" He turned to one of his fellow soldiers. "Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to join General Tullius in the defense."

"Gods guide you, Hadvar," grunted the soldier as he scooped up the crying child.

Hadvar turned to Jakt. "Come here," he ordered, "and hold out your hands." He fumbled with a knife, reached out and cut his bonds. Jakt recoiled as if stung, surprised by this unforeseen kindness.

"I think you just earned yourself a pardon," he growled as he turned away. "Quickly! Stay close to me!"

Saved by an Imperial soldier? Once again irony reared its ugly head. Jakt followed him through another burning building, then around another close to a stone wall. There was a tense moment when, all of a sudden, the beast landed on the wall. Both men threw themselves against the stone, waiting as it breathed a fresh gout of flame at a pair of fleeing Stormcloaks in the courtyard… Jakt closed his eyes, certain to be roasted alive, but when he opened them again the fiend was gone: it had not seen them. He had not time to breathe a sigh of relief before Hadvar wrenched him to his feet.

As the two man ran through Helgen, buildings burned and people screamed. The beast flapped overhead, rending the village with fire and mayhem. In the central courtyard a group of newly freed Stormcloaks frantically waged battle with some Imperial soldiers, and the sound of steel upon steel joined the cacophony of the strangely surreal yet deadly attack. Hadvar cursed their foolishness and chose to ignore the fight, so Jakt followed him; besides, he was still unarmed. He was unsure if he could bring himself to kill this new savior, even if he was a soldier of the Empire. All of a sudden the two entered through a newly toppled stone archway to find Helgen's keep, separated by a small, open courtyard.

Suddenly, a beleaguered Ralof appeared. He had armed himself with a small war axe. Hadvar screeched to a stop and called out to him. "Ralof! You damn traitor, out of the way!"

"We're escaping, Hadvar," Ralof cried out in response. "You can't stop us this time!"

There was a tense moment as the two eyed each other, but when the monster roared overhead, Hadvar cursed again and lowered his blade. "Fine," he spat, "but I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

The two ran in opposite directions. Both called out for him to follow, but Jakt quickly made up his mind. He turned on his heels and ran behind Ralof towards the main gates of the keep. There was a pang of guilt and uncertainty then – after all, Hadvar had freed him, and clearly regretted his misfortune. But Ralof was a Stormcloak, and everyone knew that the Stormcloaks fought for Skyrim's independence, and besides, Jakt had just come very close to losing his head on an Imperial chopping block for a crime hardly worthy of a fortnight in prison.

Jakt and Ralof forced open the gate and piled into the keep. They found themselves in a large circular room, decorated with Imperial Legion colors. The battle raging outside became little more than a series of muffled shouts. Ralof ran over to a body next to a table that wore the blue of the Stormcloaks.

"We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother," he muttered, crouching over his slain comrade. Jakt knew little of his people and their religion, but his blood boiled at the sight. He stood there, stony faced, unsure of what to say.

Soon enough, Ralof stood. "Looks like we're the only ones who made it," he breathed. Then he shook his head sadly.

"What was that thing?" asked Jakt. His voice felt hoarse: he could not tell if it was from disuse, or breathing too much smoke.

Ralof looked at him with wide eyes. "It was a dragon! No doubt about it. Just like the children's tales and the legends," He took another deep breath. "The harbingers of the end times."

Jakt said nothing. What was there to say? His mother had never told him those stories. She had barely told him anything before she died. But he knew about dragons, he had heard the rumors. The dragons were all dead, they died long ago: the last dragon stood as a statue in the Imperial city, frozen in stone for two centuries, the only reminder left of the days when the Septims ruled the Empire. Back when it was worth anything.

"Ralof," he spoke, stirring the man from his fears, "We need to get moving."

Ralof shook his head again to clear it, and nodded. Then he took one look at Jakt and laughed, a short little bark. "Not like that, you're not."

Jakt looked down at himself. He was still dressed in the prison rags. Ralof had a point – he wasn't about to slay any dragons dressed like this.

"You'd better take Gunjar's things," Ralof started slowly, "Where he's gone… well, let's just say he won't need them anymore."

Jakt looked him in the eye, and cleared his throat. "Tell me… where did you say he went?"

Ralof's eyebrows shot up in surprised. "To Sovngarde. Shor's bones! Do you mean to tell me you've never heard of Sovngarde?"

Jakt raised his hands defensively. "I grew up in Cyrodil."

Ralof continued to look at him as if he was daft, but he shrugged. "Sovngarde is where the sons and daughters of Skyrim go when they fall in this life." He paused. "They say that mead flows in rivers from a never-ending source high in the mountains, and that the heroes of old test their might on frosted plains, then drink to never-ending friendship in a beer hall larger than a mountain!" He laughed his short bark again. "Of course, the only way there is a sword through your belly or an axe through your neck. But sooner or later, Sovngarde awaits all valiant Nords." He looked to Gunjar, and Jakt thought he detected a hint of jealousy in Ralof's otherwise grim tone.

Jakt rubbed his own neck, grateful his head was still attached to his body. He did not yet understand these people, his kin, with their blind courage, love of battle, and superstitious ways. In the slums of the Imperial city, reckless bravery was like to get one knifed in the back. He was in no hurry to get to Sovngarde.

Once Jakt had dressed, they pressed on through the castle. It was eerie and quiet: Ralof was right, no one else had thought to enter the keep. Either that, or they were all dead, killed by the dragon. Jakt paused only to take a sword from where it hung on a weapon rack in one of the barrack rooms. Ralof looked disdainfully at him, for it was an Imperial weapon, with a wide blade and the Septim dragon sigil carved into its hilt. Regardless, it was good steel, well sharpened and balanced. Most Nords liked to charge in with abandon, wielding greatswords or battleaxes the length of a grown man, but Jakt had learned to fight a little differently.

"You are new to Skyrim, then?" Ralof asked after a moment, as they descended through the keep.

"I grew up in the Imperial City, although I spent time walking Cyrodil."

Ralof smiled, but it was not a happy one. "So you have seen the cruelty of the Empire before." He gestured at the room they found themselves in: several cages sat against the walls, and an assortment of crude, pointed and serrated objects – knives, shivs, embalming tools – lay on a table, smeared in what looked like blood. One of the cages held a dead man dressed in bloodstained robes.

All of a sudden, there were voices, followed by the heavy footsteps of armored feet. Three men entered the room, legionnaires all of them. They skidded to a halt when they beheld the two blue-clad Nords. Ralof drew his axe and bared his teeth like a snarling bear.

"You Stormcloak bastards," began the one in the middle. He was barrel-chested and squat, with a split lip and oily hair. Faded blood stained his gauntlets and his leather armor, and the sword in his hand was as ugly as he was, with a harsh, serrated blade, and a slight greenish hue. Judging by the keys dangling at his hip, this was the gaoler, and most likely the torturer as well.

"You thought you might escape the axe, did you?" the gaoler hissed. The soldiers to his left and right gripped their swords, with cold eyes and lips pressed tightly shut. "We'll send you to Oblivion ourselves then!"

Ralof gave a terrible cry and charged forward, scattering the three. Jakt loped after him, keeping his center of gravity low, with his sword in his left. They were three against two – he needed to even the odds quickly before their enemy overwhelmed them. He spotted the gaoler, who had leapt back in surprise following Ralof's reckless charge. Jakt swung his blade diagonally towards the man, a weak strike to test the man's defenses. The man parried easily and pressed his own attack, a savage overhand chop, relying on brute force to overwhelm his opponent. Jakt briefly felt his hot breath on his face, looked up to see wild eyes scarcely a foot from his own. Instead of fighting the man's lunge, he met the man's blade with his own, quicker than a whip, and tapped it slightly to the side, then deftly spun out of the man's way, his foot lunging out in the process to catch the gaoler's own. Overbalanced, the man crashed forwards, buying Jakt precious time.

He turned just in time to block the horizontal sweeping strike of one of the soldiers. In the corner of his eye he saw Ralof tackle the other to the ground, but he forced himself to concentrate on the man in front of him. He unleashed a flurry of quick strikes that left his opponent hard-pressed to counter them all. The last parry left the man awkwardly outstretched, his sword arm extended and bent too far to his left; Jakt deftly slid his own blade down past the hilt of his opponent's outstretched sword, shearing off his thumb and biting deep into his arm in the spot just before his leather gauntlet met his wrist. The man cried out and dropped his sword, and Jakt sent him reeling backwards with a shove.

Before he could follow up, the gaoler was upon him again, evidently recovered. He came in with a brutal smashing blow that sent a jolt through Jakt's arms as he just barely got his own sword up in time. The squat man pressed his attack, each swing stronger – and clumsier – than the last, keeping Jakt on the defensive. Jakt bided his time, parrying his blows, waiting for the man to make his mistake, and he soon did. His final swing, a great arcing overhead strike, took too long, and by the time he brought it down Jakt was no longer there. He'd spun aside, completed the turn to build his momentum, and by the time the gaoler's wicked sword reached the point where Jakt had previously stood, his own weapon was biting deep into the man's side.

The man cried out, turning awkwardly and desperately tried to counterattack, but Jakt swatted the halfhearted blow away and plunged his own blade deep into the man's chest, shearing through his leather armor with ease. With a gurgle the gaoler dropped his own weapon and clawed at the sword frantically, pathetically. Jakt did not linger, planting his foot on the man's stomach and yanking his blade free, sending the gaoler tumbling back in the process. He did not get up, and Jakt did not look at him. There was a lump stuck in is throat, and his eyes felt very dry, but he ignored it and turned away. He was just in time to see Ralof, standing, knock aside one last feeble slash and bury his axe deep in the neck of the soldier he'd been fighting.

Jakt was about to sheath his own blade when he remembered the third. The soldier sat against the wall, clutching his bleeding hand, tears of pain in his eyes. Ralof strode towards him, his axe dripping, his face frozen in cold rage. The soldier whimpered, "mercy," and Jakt opened his mouth to tell Ralof to wait, spare him, but before he could say anything his axe buried itself deep between the soldier's eyes. Ralof wrenched it out, let the man fall sideways.

He turned to Jakt and smiled, laugh lines returning to his face all of a sudden. "You're pretty handy, boy," he said. "Who taught you how to fight like that?"

Jakt just shook his head. He forced himself to smile back and replied, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Ralof shrugged and turned away. "Alright then. Lets keep moving."

Jakt lingered for a moment, finding himself in front of the third soldier, his head nearly split in two. He was young, no older than Jakt, and he would stay that way. And though it was matted with blood and brain matter, his fair hair betrayed his heritage, as did his sky-blue eyes, frozen open in death.

_By the Eight,_ thought Jakt. _What have I gotten myself into?_


	2. The Barrow

The Draugr were big, they were strong, but they were definitely not quick. Finding himself face to face with one of the reanimated corpses, Jakt nimbly dodged a powerful yet clumsy swipe that took forever to fall. With a rapid strike of his own he slashed clean through the blue-eyed monster's outstretched arm, sending its ancient, heavy longsword crashing against the stone floor of the barrow. The draugr recoiled, its taut, rotting features twisted in what might have been pain, or perhaps surprise, as is attempted to process the loss of a limb. Jakt did not let it stew over its predicament too long: quick as lightning, he whipped his sword across, severing its head from its shoulders. It lurched to the ground to join three of its newly slain fellows, restrained once again by death's grip.

When Jakt had first entered Bleak Falls Barrow, the draugr had terrified him. The entrance chamber had contained four slain bodies – never a good sign – clad in a motley assortment of furs and leather and armed with simple iron weapons: bandits, by the look of them. Jakt had barely gone a few steps deeper into the barrow when he had encountered his first draugr, the hulking creature stepping down from a pedestal where it had previously stood, motionless, to attack. Thinking himself alone in the musty cavern, the fright it had caused him would haunt him for a fortnight, and his heart nearly gave out when another clambered from a coffin-sized hole in the wall to join its undead companion.

Jakt soon discovered, however, that while the draugr were dangerous in groups, they were too slow and cumbersome to pose much of a threat in ones or twos. Simply put, their brittle, stiff arms and legs did not allow them to swing their weapons fast enough to cause him damage, except when caught unawares. With this knowledge in mind, he had thought to use the ruin's narrow corridors to his advantage, using them to channel the awakened draugr like water through a funnel. This allowed him to avoid their lumbering slashes with relative ease. He also quickly learned of their adversity to light and heat: a salvaged torch from a fallen bandit proved to be more than just a light in darkness, as whenever he swung it the draugr could not help to cover their sunken, glowing blue eyes long enough for Jakt to strike. Their dry sandpaper skin lit up easily, and the blood in their veins had long since dried, making them easy to put to flame. Gradually his fear faded, replaced by pure adrenaline.

It did not completely disappear, however, only shrunk into a pulsating dread that lurked in the back of his mind. Pressing deeper into the barrow only fed his uneasiness, for not only did the draugr stalk the dank halls, but the cavernous ruin had its own defense mechanisms. The shopkeeper in Riverwood had warned him about the treacherous nature of the old Nordic tombs that littered Skyrim, so Jakt went slowly and carefully. If he was lucky, the lumbering, unaware draugr sprung the traps themselves; more than once he came across a struggling zombie, impaled by retractable metal spears or sliced down by ceiling-mounted axe blades that swung like pendulums. Occasionally he came across Draugr that had already been felled, all in the same curious way - with a single arrow buried in an eye. Each time this happened he frowned, wondering if there was someone else in there with him. But necessity dictated that he banish those concerns from his mind and focus on the problem at hand - namely, surviving the ruin's innate dangers.

It became readily apparent that the barrow was actually a sprawling crypt, inhabited by the undead remnants of some long-forgotten cult. The stench of death and decay hung heavy in the stale air, and Jakt could hear the distinctive thuds of draugr footsteps echoing throughout the twisted halls. Ancient, rusting weaponry littered the floors and walls; altars made of rotting wood and chipped stone held tiny offerings to carved busts that looked eerily like the heads of dragons. The draugr looked disturbingly familiar: their blue eyes and stringy fair hair betrayed their heritage. For all Jakt knew, he was desecrating the resting place of his ancestors.

After a tense, slow-moving hour or so of crawling deeper into the crypt, Jakt came across a tough, sticky, web-like substance that began to obscure the walls, ceiling and floor. The torch came in handy here, especially when the webbing began to block the way forward. A wet, mealy stench filled his nostrils. More than once he came across huge cocoons that looked big enough to house a man of Jakt's stature. The quiet sense of dread in the back of his mind throbbed and grew.

All of a sudden he found himself in an enlarged cavern. The walls themselves were not the carved stone of the crypt, but rather were hewn directly into the bedrock, clearly not by the hands of man or mer. Webbing coated the walls and parts of the floor. Large, man-sized clumps of brittle white matter that Jakt fervently hoped were _not _egg sacs decorated the edges of the room. On the other side of the cavern he could see a huge web, stretched tautly over what looked to be the exit. He squinted; in the dark, he thought he could barely make out something wriggling furiously…

He stepped forward to get a closer look, stepping onto a strand of web as he did so. There was a tiny _twang, _followed by a large creak that came from the ceiling. Jakt stopped, feeling a nervous drop of sweat beading down his face despite the chill air of the crypt. He stared straight ahead, at the struggling webbed object, not daring himself to look up. Maybe he was imagining things, but the trapped being, who definitely looked human, was shaking its head. He took a deep breath and slowly raised his gaze…

Just as the largest spider he'd ever seen unhooked itself from the webbed ceiling of the cave and thudded to the ground like a ton of bricks. The ground shook under the weight of its impact. It hissed and clicked a bizarre war cry that sounded like the rattle of bones.

The creature clawed its way forward, leading with its barbed front legs. Jakt, caught in a stupor, tripped backwards to avoid its first desperate swipe, an awkward pawing motion with its foremost leg that cut the air vertically. Unfortunately, Jakt's sweaty, shaking hands failed him, and he felt his sword slip from his grasp in the commotion. Barely able to see the pulsating mass of spider bearing down on him, he frantically held up his torch - which he'd managed to keep hold of - and waved it in front of his face with a desperate shout.

The spider, unaccustomed to light and heat just like the draugr, recoiled in confusion. Jakt forced himself upright, holding the torch high. Heart pounding in his ears, he forced himself to calm down and assess the situation. The spider was momentarily cowed by the torch, but it could not burn forever. Jakt started forward, his eyes on his foe while his feet frantically searching the ground for the muffled clank of metal on boot. He dared not take his eyes off his deadly adversary.

He managed to get a good look at the spider at the process. It was massive, longer and wider than two men, with fiendishly serrated chitin legs. What seemed like a thousand tiny, dark eyes stared at him from a massive hairy head, below which sprouted two bulbous pincers that dripped a foul greenish liquid. Interestingly enough, the spider seemed to be favoring its left side; he thought he could make out the hilt of a sword protruding from a particularly dark and matted area in the middle of its furred thorax. But then the spider lunged forward and Jakt refocused his priorities.

He dodged backwards nimbly, then stabbed the torch forward in a daring lunge. The spider recoiled a bit, but he could tell it was getting braver. Jakt was running out of time.

Then he felt it - the sword at his feet. The spider seemed to sense what was happening, and came forward with a new vigor, waving its front legs awkwardly. The beast was imposing, to be sure, but it was clearly not accustomed to fighting its prey face to face. In a swift movement Jakt flipped the sword up with his foot, grabbed it in his left hand, and spun to the right, avoiding the beast's frantic rush. With a mighty grunt he swung the blade down at an outstretched leg, severing it cleanly at the joint.

The spider recoiled in agony, emitting a high-pitched screech accompanied by several confused clacks of its pincers. It shrunk backwards away from him, favoring its stunted leg. Bounding forward, Jakt prepared to finish it off, youthful courage flowing through veins so recently clogged with fear.

He lunged forward, aiming for the spider's many-eyed face, but he had underestimated his foe. To his surprise, the spider caught the flat faces of the wide imperial blade in between its pincers. It wrenched the weapon away from his grasp and then threw itself forward, forcing Jakt onto his back in the process. The torch went too, skittering away in the clambor.

Jakt scrabbled backwards, frantically reaching for the small dagger he kept at his belt. As the spider's massive bulk bore down on him, he wrenched it free from its sheath and prepared to strike. He would only get one shot..

Just before the spider stabbed its pincers into his chest, Jakt plunged the dagger right into its face. The small blade found an eye socket and stuck there. Once again Jakt found himself on his ass, watching his adversary recoil in pain and fright, flailing frantically at its face with its remaining front leg. He wasted no time, springing to his feet and dashing to the creature's left side. His eyes had not failed him: sure enough, the gilded hilt of a slender sword protruded from the spider's flank. He grasped the hilt and whipped it out, causing the spider to screech in further pain. It turned desperately to face him, trying to protect its wound, and lashed out with its one good front arm. Jakt sidestepped the feeble blow easily and swept its back two right legs out from under it with a powerful, low horizontal chop.

The arachnid collapsed to its side, remaining legs waving frantically to compensate for its newly-created stumps. Jakt calmly walked around to its head, avoiding its thrashing arms with ease. He took the slender sword and plunged it once, twice, three times into the spider's head, then stepped back to watch as its writhing weakened into a final fetal curl.

After retrieving his torch, which had almost gone out, Jakt groped for his own sword. He inspected the blade to find a new pair of notches in the steel, but decided to keep it anyway. Sheathing it, he stalked toward the tall web that blocked the passage further into the crypt.

Now that he had time to focus, Jakt decided that the figure caught in the web was definitely human or elven. He could barely make out a slender build and dark, nondescript garb, as the figure was halfway wrapped in web. Judging by the haphazard wrapping job, the unfortunate soul had most likely barely beaten Jakt to the spider's den before the beast had jumped him. He began to writhe and squirm again as Jakt drew near.

_What do I do now? _Jakt wondered as he stood below him. _Is he a bandit, after the same treasure I am? _

_To Oblivion with it_, he decided, stepping forward. Nobody deserved to die like this. Laying down the torch, he took the slender sword in both hands. With a few strong chops, the figure flopped free, struggling to salvage his clothing from the sticky webbing. Jakt saw that his initial observations were correct: it was a man, shorter than he, with fair skin and curly black hair that fell just past his ears. He righted himself and Jakt got a good look at his face: swarthy and handsome, with a sharp jaw blunted by the hint of a beard. Two youthful brown eyes stared back at him: they seemed to radiate mirth. He was an imperial, no doubt, but he wasn't wearing the colors of the Legion. Rather, he was dressed in dark leather, his belt and bandoleer decorated with pockets that looked full of odds and ends. As he stood and walked forward he made an impossibly small amount of noise. His wiry build, bow and quiver at his back, and the slender sheath at his hip completed the roving vagabond look.

He offered his hand to Jakt, along with a warm smile. Jakt shook uneasily, unsure of what to say. _You're welcome?_

_"_I have to thank you, mate," said the imperial. "If you hadn't come along, I'd be spiderbait for sure." He had a reedy voice that Jakt found immediately untrustworthy. "Now, I believe you have something of mine…"

He gestured to the slender gilded sword that Jakt clutched at his side. Jakt looked down in confusion for a second, understood, then flipped the sword up and caught it by the flat side of its blade. He offered the hilt to the imperial, with an "Of course."

There was a pause as the man took it and placed it gracefully in its sheathe with a completely unnecessary flourish.

"Elven made, I'll have you know. Nabbed it off a Thalmor guard snoozing at his post in Solitude," the man laughed, "He probably caught Oblivion for that, the poor sod."

Jakt twisted his face slightly, unsure of what to think. Clearly, the man was some sort of thief, although probably not a very good one - he'd just admitted it out loud, after all!

The man caught wind of Jakt's skeptical look and laughed. "Now lad, normally I wouldn't steal from the goodly folk in the light of day, but when it comes to the Thalmor, all bets are off!" He punched Jakt's arm lightly, in what the man most likely suspected was a chummy manner.

Jakt just shook his head. "Who are you?"

The man took a step back and bowed. "I am Quintus Drake, formerly of Riften, and even more formerly of Cyrodil. You may also refer to me by my title, the Dawn Raven of Bravil, a name you surely would be familiar with if you had ever traveled south of this bright and cheerful land we find ourselves in."

Drake obviously mistook Jakt's stunned silence as an invitation to keep speaking.

"Now then," he began, "Clearly I underestimated the dangers of this bloody cave. Draugr and bandits are pure sport, but spiders are a different beast entirely, eh?" he paused, then chuckled to himself. "Literally, they are! In any case, you seem stout, for the mercenary type anyways, so what say we tackle this crypt together, good mister…" he paused. "what did you say your name was?"

Jakt cleared his throat and shook his head, still a little bewildered. "I didn't, but it's Jakt."

This seemed to stun Drake. He cocked an eyebrow. "Just… Jakt?"

Jakt nodded.

After a second of pondering Drake began to tut. Jakt raised his eyebrows in annoyance, but the Imperial obviously did not notice. "Perhaps we add a title," he began, mostly to himself, "I understand the nords are fond of listing their deeds after their names… Jakt Spiderbane, perhaps? Or something more likely to inspire fear - Jakt the Bloody? Jakt Deathbringer? Jakt the Odorous? Jakt the -"

"Just Jakt for now," the Nord cut him off before he could list more ridiculous suggestions. He smiled and grinned despite himself, however, and replied, "Perhaps we'll find some deed to grace my title at the bottom of this crypt."

Drake blinked in surprise, then laughed. "That's the spirit, lad!"

Jakt could not help but smile. Drake's demeanor, although grating, was also infectious. As it turned out, he was not all bluster - the young Imperial was a crack shot, proving to be, as Jakt suspected, the one responsible for the arrow-felled draugr throughout the Barrow. The lumbering zombies were no match for his swift bow. The weaker draugr he felled with no more than a single shot, always through an eye; the more resilient ones he slowed with arrows while Jakt finished them off at close range with brute force. The duo's combination of deadly aim and savage swordsmanship was simple but effective.

Roughly a dozen felled draugr later, the twisting corridors of the barrow converged upon a low arched hallway. After pausing to retrieve some of Drake's arrows, the two entered.

Jakt had a pretty good feeling that the hallway led to something either very valuable or very dangerous. Stone carvings faded with age and obscured by lichen decorated either side of the hall. He could vaguely made out the serpentine forms of dragons on either side as he and Drake stalked along the hallway. At the end of the arched corridor was a massive stone door, decorated with three concentric half-circles. Each circle had a small carving that aligned with the center of the doorway. The line they created descended towards a larger circle towards the bottom of the doorway that had a strange, three-pronged lock. The indentations on the lock resembled the four clawmarks of a reptilian hand.

Comprehension slowly dawned on Jakt just as Drake stepped forward to inspect the door.

"Ah," he began, "A Nordic puzzle door. I've heard about these - impossible to solve without the key. Luckily for us - I've got it."

Smiling a cocksure grin, he drew out a golden claw from one of his many pockets. Before he could use it, however, Jakt stepped forward and placed his large hand around Drake's wrist. The other went to his sword, resting firmly on the pommel.

"Quintus, wait," Jakt commanded.

"It's Drake, if you please," replied the Imperial coldly, regarding him for the first time with similar mistrust.

"Drake, then," Jakt continued, his voice quiet. "A merchant in Riverwood hired me to retrieve a golden claw that he claimed bandits had stolen." He paused for emphasis, tightening his grip ever so slightly. "Now, I suggest that you hand it over, nice and slow, and nothing bad need come of this."

There was a silent and very tense moment as the two men regarded each other. Jakt was fairly certain that Drake's proficiency with a bow outclassed his skill with his blade, if his preference for the ranged weapon was any indication. He stared confidently down into the other man's eyes, which to his credit betrayed no trepidation.

Drake was the first to break the silence, with a laugh that seemed a little bit forced. "Looks like our goals intwine, then," he began almost conversationally. "You see, my employer hired me to fetch something at the bottom of this Barrow. I have no interest in the claw itself - it is merely a means to an end. But I will cut you a deal."

He paused, walked a step or two, and placed his hand on his chin, pretending to think. "You're not too shoddy at killing draugr and whatnot, and I could probably use some muscle. You stick around long enough to see me through this crypt, and I'll not only throw in the claw, but I'll cut you a slice of a much bigger sweetroll, so to speak."

Jakt's surprise was so visible it caused Drake to chuckle. He did not trust the man, of course, but as long as he could keep him within the reach of a sword, the matter of trust was not really necessary, a point that Drake seemed to grasp.

Sensing his hesitation, the Imperial sealed the deal with a sly remark:

"Besides, I bet you're just as curious as I am about what's behind that door."

Drake was right: with the claw in their clutches, the puzzle door proved simple to solve. It gave way to a gargantuan cavern, even larger than the spider's nest, and surprisingly well lit. At one end there was a massive rock wall, two or three times taller than a man, slightly curved and covered in some sort of arcane script. In front of the wall was a single iron sarcophagus so dark that it seemed to suck the light out of the room all around it. An arched bridge stretched from the entryway to the plateau that housed the rock wall. Below the bridge was a small, dark lake that was impossibly still.

Jakt and Drake inched their way into the room with caution, their weapons drawn and their pulses pounding. The dread that had receded into the back of Jakt's mind returned in full force. When they made it to the plateau, the two waited expectantly in front of the sarcophagus, as if they were daring it to open up and swallow them into blackness.

When nothing happened, the two looked at each other quizzically. Drake shrugged and started forward, searching the area around the sarcophagus. It was then that Jakt started hearing the voices.

They were soft at first, barely audible, a slow, whispered chant. He swiveled like a top trying to find the source. Drake noticed and shot him a confused look.

"What in Oblivion are you doing?"

"Do you hear that?" Jakt replied. He stepped towards the sarcophagus, and the voices got a little louder. He took another step forward, and it happened again.

"No," Drake replied with a frown, "Don't hear a peep." The smaller man dashed forward and slapped his hands down on the box, searching desperately for a hinge or lid. Jakt hesitated, trying to discern the spoken words of the otherworldly chant. Failing to do so, he took another step forward.

By the time he reached the sarcophagus, the chanting had sped up and become louder. He ignored Drake, who had identified the lid and was trying unsuccessfully to pry it open. He could barely hear the Imperial's curses over the rising crescendo of voices. The sarcophagus itself was not the source of the noise: no, it seemed to emanate from the curious curved wall. Jakt stepped closer and the chanting raised to a shout; another step, and it became a storm of voices, frantic and deafening. All of the sudden a few of the characters, one of the words written in the indecipherable carved script, began to make sense. It read, '_fus.'_ Jakt felt the word sear itself into his brain, and something in his chest burned like the coals of a freshly bellowed forge.

"_Fus," _he whispered, and the word seemed to tear itself out of his mouth with a low, quiet rumble. All of a sudden the clambering and chanting stopped, and on some basic, primeval level Jakt understood. _Fus. _Force.

He turned to look at Drake, who had stopped trying to pry open the lid of the sarcophagus and had retreated a couple of steps to glower at it. Jakt walked back around it and stood beside him, unsure of how he might explain his surreal experience with the wall.

"Damn it," muttered Drake, "There has to be some way to get it open."

"Hey, uh, listen," Jakt began, his mind still reeling from the encounter. Drake turned to regard him quizzically. "What?"

But Jakt was saved from the trouble of having to explain his strange vision, because at that moment, as if right on cue, the lid of the sarcophagus blasted open with a momentous _clang. _There was a rattling sigh, and a gaunt, skeletal hand reached over the rim of the box. Metal scraped upon metal as the rest of the sarcophagus's inhabitant creaked up from its resting place. Jakt and Drake could only watch in terror as the draugr clambered to its feet and stepped out of its metal coffin.

It towered over the two would-be grave robbers, taller than any of its large-boned undead brethren by a head or more. It was dressed head to foot in blackened iron armor that clanked and creaked as it stood. On its head it wore a helmet with wicked horns so long and serrated that it would have put Mehrunes Dagon himself to shame. It turned towards the paralyzed pair, revealing two brilliant blue eyes that beamed from the darkened recesses of its helmet, staring deep into Jakt's own. Reaching behind its shoulder, it produced a greatsword longer than a man. As dark as the great draugr's armor, the blade nevertheless seemed to shimmer with pale, blue frost. The room seemed to blacken at that moment, and as the black draugr opened its mouth to suck in a breath, what little warmth that remained in the heavy, still air disappeared with a rattle.

Jakt had just enough time to draw his sword before the draugr opened its mouth and screamed a pained, devilish phrase and blew him off the plateau. It was the very same shout he'd heard the black dragon speak at Helgen, and as the unyielding wall of pure force lifted him off his feet and propelled him out over the lake below, Jakt couldn't help but find one of those words familiar. _Fus. _

He hit the water hard. His back smacked painfully against the hard surface of the lake, expunging the breath from his body as the water gave way to inky, cold depths. He struggled frantically to right himself, feeling his sword leave his grasp for a second time that day and plummet downwards, his sodden armor threatening to do the same with him. Luckily, Jakt was a strong swimmer, and the Stormcloak armor amounted to little more than thick fur and light chainmail. With a powerful kick he lunged upwards, breaking the surface with a gasp, only to hear another otherworldly wail from the platform above. Spying a small staircase cut into the side of the cliff wall that stretched from the lake to the platform high above, he doggedly pushed himself through the dank, syrupy water. Reaching the shore, he bounded up the staircase two steps at a time, his weaponless fists balled in rage, his sodden clothing barely weighing him down.

Somehow, Drake had managed to avoid the Draugr's shouts. While Jakt had been splashing around in the lake, the draugr had evidently closed the gap between them to engage the Imperial at close range. His elven sword drawn but practically useless, Drake was frantically trying to avoid the long, wicked blade of his undead enemy as it carved deadly swathes into the air. It had backed Drake practically to the edge of the platform, proving far quicker than its weaker brothers that they had left littering the floors of the barrow.

While Drake ducked and dodged away from the sure guarantee of dismemberment, Jakt found himself momentarily safe from the draugr, its heavily armored back facing him. The imperial was almost out of room to maneuver, though, and the long frigid blade would soon find its mark. As he glanced down at his painfully empty hands, doubt pawed at Jakt with sluggish fingers. Then, in a surge of adrenaline and insanity, mouthing a silent prayer to Talos, he sprung into action.

Jakt raced forward and threw himself onto the draugr's broad back, wrapping his arms around the beast's armored shoulders. It hardly even faltered under his full weight, but stopped its attack to assess this new threat. Blinking away his momentary confusion, Drake leapt forward and reengaged the draugr, forcing it to keep its focus on him. Batting away Drake's feeble strike with ease, it swung its sword at the nimble imperial, who threw himself to the side in a desperate bid to avoid the blade. The ploy bought Jakt precious seconds, and he pawed his way up the draugr's back, wrapping his powerful legs around its midsection.

Taking its head in a double armlock, Jakt twisted it to the left in order to build torque, and, with all the force of his soaked yet corded muscles, jerked it to the right. The draugr's brittle, leathery skin and rotting bones were no match for the young nord's strength, and with a sickening crunch, its neck gave way. The unexpected break sent Jakt sprawling, his own momentum propelling him off of the beast's back and sending him sprawling onto his own. With surprising grace he rolled backwards and came up on his feet. He came up face to face with his opponent, as the draugr's head had almost completely turned around in its socket. He swore he saw it blink in what could only be confusion.

He was fighting the urge to laugh when the draugr screamed at him and began frantically flailing its limbs. He could hear Drake oblige his own mirth, however, the imperial's laughter ringing uproariously from somewhere behind the hulking, confused monster. The creature's haphazard movements were completely uncoordinated, comically so, by virtue of its reversed head. It lumbered awkwardly towards him, its head facing Jakt but his front facing Drake. The young nord easily dodged a clumsy backhanded swing, biding his time. Sure enough, the stupid beast swung again, overextending its backwards arm in the process and burying its sword in the cobbled ground. Jakt kept forward and grabbed the sword hand of his disoriented opponent, disarming it easily. From there on it was only a matter of decapitating the beast with its own weapon. The two-handed blade hummed through the air to finish the job that Jakt had already started with his bare hands.

As the headless draugr toppled, Drake walked over, shaking his head and laughing.

"I guess not all draugr are bad," he said, sending the severed head rolling towards the water with a gentle kick. "Looks like all this one needed was a little change in perspective, eh?"

He burst out laughing again, and this time Jakt joined in with him, albeit reluctantly. Drake bounded to his side and punched him again in the arm.

"You had me worried there for a moment, lad," he began, with a wink, "Worried that I might have to tackle the beast myself and walk away with all the reward, anyways!" He paused, putting his hand to his chin in mock contemplation again. "I never do know what to do with that much money - I'd probably end up wasting most of it on women and drink and clothing, anyways!" He laughed at his own words. Jakt stared at him, the smile dying on his lips, reminded of just who he had allied himself with.

"What? I suppose you want a sincere thank you, or something?"

"Drake. The reason we came here. Remember?"

"Ah yes," Drake answered, sheathing his sword with the same stupid flourish as before and walking towards the empty sarcophagus. Jakt joined him, and they both gazed down at its contents. A moment passed, and then Drake turned to Jakt with eyebrows raised so high they seemed to hover over his head.

"That phony magician hired me to retrieve this?" he asked incredulously, pointing down at the object in the base of the vessel. "A _rock?!"_

Jakt bent down to inspect it. It was a stone tablet, larger than a book, with tiny illegible script carved into both sides. He shook his head in confusion and straightened up, gesturing wordlessly to the imperial to retrieve it.

With an exasperated huff, Drake reached into the sarcophagus. He swore and swayed as he struggled to lift the tablet.

"Nocturnal's sodden shorts! I can barely even pick it up!"


	3. The Dragon at the Tower

"You know, to your credit," Jakt the Nothing began cheerfully, "I'm surprised you didn't run off with the tablet, and the claw for that matter. The Eight know, you had plenty of chances."

"I was planning on it," Drake replied irritably, "If it wasn't so bloody heavy, I'd have sold the damn thing and been halfway to Solitude by now."

Jakt shifted the heavy leather satchel containing their bounty to his other shoulder with a cheeky smile. Normally Drake would have replied in kind, but he was in a foul mood. He was still damp from the rain and his pockets were beginning to feel dangerously emptier than usual. The merchant in Riverwood had not paid nearly enough for the trouble of returning his golden claw. And the early morning sun was just beginning to shine directly into his eyes.

And worst of all, on the three day trek from Riverwood to Whiterun his traveling companion had begun to _warm_ to him. After ten years in his particular line of work, Drake had learned the importance of maintaining personal connections, but dependency, emotional or physical, was something to be avoided. In his opinion, Jakt had not shown the requisite talent to deserve this much of Drake's time: skill in combat and brute muscle were easily bought and traded for in Skyrim, the supply being higher than the demand. Normally he would have cut and run, but he needed the fool's help to carry the stone tablet. Now he was going to have to honor his stupid makeshift agreement and give him a cut of the reward. Although not a superstitious man, Drake believed in fate: after all, it had screwed him over on multiple occasions.

Still, he couldn't help but like the lad, despite himself. Jakt was wide-eyed and curious, despite his stoic demeanor, and as his guard began to drop a sense of wonder and humor began to emerge in its place. His sword arm was certainly capable, his battle experience surprising for a youth his age. What was more, by volunteering to carry the tablet for Drake and therefore denying him the opportunity to cut him out of the deal, he had proved that he might have a knack for Drake's particular business. _Perhaps,_ he thought to himself, _I might have need of an enforcer, when this deal is done._

There was one subject, however, that caused Jakt to clam up: his past. Drake found this annoying and cliche. His own past was rife with misdeeds and burnt bridges, though, so he chose to respect the young nord's silence on the matter. He managed to piece together that it was his first visit to Skyrim, and that he had forsaken little by fleeing Cyrodil. Only the Gods knew what he had hoped to find here: certainly not a land in turmoil, split down the middle by some pointless civil war. Drake frowned, looking over at his young charge, who still wore the blue of the Stormcloaks. _If only he would wear something a little less conspicuous…_

"I thought I told you to change your armor," he murmured to his nord companion as they waited on the great stone steps that led to the palace of Whiterun. "They don't especially _like_ Stormcloaks here, and your little uniform is bluer than a mountain flower."

Jakt raised his head to glower at him, his earlier mirth forgotten. "If Whiterun really is the heart of Skyrim like you claim," he began in a low voice, his chin jutting out like a battering ram, "Then it ought to appreciate the true struggle of its sons and daughters."

Drake did all he could to avoid rolling his eyes. "Fine. Keep it on. Put on your cloak though, I don't want some meddlesome steward docking our pay because of your politics."

Jakt narrowed his eyes, but after a moment he reached into his bag, withdrew his traveling cloak and threw it over himself. To Drake's relief, it hid the bulk of his telltale uniform. _Perhaps this one is less stubborn and foolish than he looks. _Then, finally, the door opened.

"Farengar Secret-Fire will see you now," grunted a brutish guard who did not even have the decency to make eye contact. Drake suppressed a sigh as he rose and followed the man, resisting the urge to grumble about this shoddy treatment. After all, the stupid wizard had stressed _utmost haste _- a double standard if there ever was one! Drake could admit easily that he was a convicted thief, but no one had ever accused him of wasting anyone's time.

Drake did not like dealing with guardsmen or housecarls or stewards or especially Jarls. They were boorish and repressive, and bad for business. He had found that the Nordic concepts of honor above all and duty to your brother were not only financially unsound, they were often accompanied by a helping of hypocrisy. Whiterun, being the cultural center of Skyrim, was especially drenched in the Nord ways of life and business. So the unfortunate reality of having to report to the court wizard of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater in the palace of Dragonsreach, surrounded by his guards and lackeys, was quite unsettling to Drake, not to mention ironic.

He could feel Jakt stiffen at his side as they entered the great hall of Dragonsreach. Drake had to admit - it was impressive. Huge, arching columns of wood and stone wove up and around the colossal room, from which smaller doorways branched. A great flaming hearth stretched the length of the hall, around which sat a U-shaped table. At the end of the main hall stood the Jarl's throne, a surprisingly spartan affair, made of simple wood and fitted with iron and furs. Jarl Balgruuf himself was nowhere to be seen. Drake could make out twin staircases on either side of the throne that ascended into the main tower of the ornate fortress.

"First time in a castle?" he whispered to the stunned Nord at his side as they plodded after their surly escort.

"I grew up in the shadow of the White-Gold Tower," Jakt replied, his voice slightly stunted, "But I hardly placed a foot near it."

"So, yes, this is your first time," Drake finished off for him, giving the young nord a withering sideways glance.

"What about you?" Jakt replied after a moment, right after the two extricated themselves from the path of two overworked servants burdened with towering trays of cheese and meat.

"I have been known to frequent them on occasion," Drake replied, neatly sidestepping a haughty nord shieldmaiden dressed in patchwork steel armor as she clanged towards the great double doors. "Although I daresay most of my visits seem to pass by within the dungeons of said castles." He winked at Jakt, who failed to repress a smile.

The guard marched them into the court wizard's study and abruptly vanished. It was a small room, an offshoot of the great hall located near the throne, stuffed to the brim with books, alchemy ingredients, and magical knick-knacks. Drake scanned the room as they waited, looking for anything that looked remotely valuable. In a corner, his back to them, stood the Court Wizard, paying them little heed.

In Drake's experience, there were two kinds of magic-users: those who wielded their powers to dazzle the uninitiated, and those who actually put them to concrete and responsible uses. Farengar Secret-Fire, as he called himself, was of the former. He was hunched over a ruined table, a hooded figure whispering fiercely, mortar and pestle buried in his hands. Finally, as if sensing their presence for the first time, he spun around, his hood failing to disguise the wild look on his face. With a dramatic wave of his hand and a silent command he ignited the contents of the mortar, then brought the pestle down hard into the stone receptacle. A great gout of green flame jumped from the mortar and into the air and burned for some ten seconds before receding into a tiny crackling fire.

Jakt recoiled slightly, the reaction that Farengar seemed to be looking for. For the nth time that day, Drake stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Magic users were either very boring, or very dangerous. He wasn't sure which kind was worse. But all of them were pretentious, self-absorbed, power-seeking fanatics, each in their own way.

As Farengar placed his glorified candle on his desk and cleared his throat to speak, Drake became aware of another presence in the room. Swathed in the grey, gender-obfuscating robes of the typical mage, another hooded figure hugged the far wall of the study. The hooded person obviously preferred to retain an aura mystery, content to watch the exchange from afar. _Another high-and-mighty magic-user, no doubt._

"You have returned," Began Farengar in his nasally voice. He lowered his hood, revealing a ridiculous pair of sideburns. "With the Dragonstone, I trust?" He noticed then that Drake was not alone. "Oh. And, who is this?"

"A stranger, incidentally," Drake replied neutrally. "His name is Jakt, and he came here of his own accord. He's the one who actually _has_ the stone. And, for the record, Farengar, you might have mentioned the dangers that I faced at the bottom of that tomb."

"Yes, well, it doesn't really matter, does it?" replied the wizard impatiently, "You obviously survived, with the stone in tact, no less. Now, we had a deal. I would _especially_ like to examine it as soon-"

"Hold on there, chum," Drake cut him off, working his way towards Farengar in a slow, meandering circle. "First off, I'd like to know why you couldn't be bothered to tell me what the damn thing _was _in the first place. And for the record, I don't actually _have _the stone - he does." He pointed to Jakt with a smug smile.

Perhaps recognizing that he was about to be grifted, Farengar looked to Jakt with some trepidation, but the Nord's face was hard as stone.

"Now," Drake continued, as he silently traced his way around the study, "I don't aim to speak for this stranger here, but I understand that he might be willing to part with the stone if you pay him, say, _twice _the terms of our original deal."

Farengar looked flabbergasted for a moment, but then nodded, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a sizable coinpurse. Drake grinned, but inwardly he was taken by surprise. He hadn't expected the idiot to cave so readily. Maybe the stone was actually valuable…

"Wait," Jakt said, his harsh visage giving way to one of curiosity. "You called it a Dragonstone. Why wouldn't you tell us what it was in the first place?"

Farengar looked to him, raising an eyebrow. "For the sake of secrecy, obviously," he began in a huff. Drake moaned inwardly as the coinpurse disappeared again into the folds of his robe. "The contents of that tablet are ancient, not to mention nearly indecipherable, but they are of utmost immediate importance. It is best that no one knows of this transaction." He paused for effect. "Now, since you are mercenaries, I will explain it to you in terms that you actually understand. I will pay you _triple _our original price if you promise not to tell a soul about our agreement."

Drake's spirits soared as the purse once again reemerged. Perhaps having the big lug along would be profitable after all! He reached for the coin, intent on blowing the coop before Jakt had another chance to screw up their score. Upending the purse, he counted out the money: six hundred gold, all in ten-piece Septims. Finished, he turned to Jakt with his features twisted in delight, only to find the young nord rooted to the spot, his hard eyes boring into Farengar's. Jakt opened his mouth to speak.

"Does it have anything to do with the dragon attack on Helgen?"

Farengar opened his mouth and shut it mechanically, his eyes wide with surprise. Drake looked at his companion quizzically. _Dragon attack on Helgen? What in Oblivion is he talking about?_

Evidently, everyone but he knew what was going on, for there was a sharp intake of breath from the corner of the wizard's study. The hooded figure relieved itself from its leaning position and stalked forward. When it reached the trio, it reached up and removed its hood, revealing itself to be a young woman. By her looks and her height, she was of Breton blood. Drake found her quite pretty, with red hair that fell nearly to her shoulders, and a freckled, heart-shaped face. She had yellow eyes that gleamed with the self-assurance that accompanied the combination of youth and knowledge. For the first time that day he found himself standing at attention, quite captivated. She hardly spared Drake a glance.

"How did you learn of that?" she snapped, her eyes locked on to Jakt's. Jakt did not reply, his own face scrunching up as he narrowed his gaze. The tip of her head barely came to Jakt's collarbone, but she cut an imposing figure nonetheless. While the two stared, mutual antagonism flowing between them, Drake ran his eyes up and down her form, trying in vain to elucidate the shape of her body underneath her robes.

"Please, allow me to introduce my associate from the College of Winterhold," began Farengar, his feathers clearly quite ruffled, "Apprentice Acolyte Lysana Trystane."

Drake knew the College only by reputation, but he was relatively certain that some Winterhold spook poking her nose into this Dragonstone business would not turn out to be profitable in the long run. He let go of the admittedly far-fetched prospect of taking her to bed and instead began silently planning his exit strategy from this whole sordid affair. He turned to Jakt to hurry him along, but the nord had evidently decided to answer Trystane's query.

"I was there," he admitted, lowering his eyes for a second. There was, once again, a hushed silence, as she and Farengar both recoiled.

"So it's really true then," Farengar asked in hushed tones, turning towards the other mage. Drake allowed them to exchange a brief, dark look before breaking the ridiculous tension that had built up.

"All right then," he began, his tone caught somewhere between annoyance and humor, "What is this horse manure? _Dragons_? I've hardly read a dozen books, and even I know they've been gone for thousands of years!" He tried to lock eyes with of the three of them, to gauge their faces, but he was met with awkward, embarrassed looks from the each. He shook his head. "You mean to tell me that dragons have _returned? _Hah!" He forced himself to laugh, but their silence was deafening. His laughter dying in his throat, he found himself at a loss for words, something that rarely happened.

Finally, Farengar cleared his throat awkwardly, giving Drake a target to focus on.

"Listen, chap," he began, "You'll have to pay me way more than triple if you want me to choke down this hogwash-"

All of a sudden, there came a commotion from the great hall, interrupting his bluster. Shouts and cries, accompanied by the scrapes of wood upon stone and thumps of bound leather boots sounded from the other room. Trystane perked up instantly, slipping between he and Jakt as gracefully as water flowing between stones. Jakt and Farengar padded after her, leaving Drake alone for a second in his confusion. Finally, he too marched into the great hall, determined to give someone a piece of his mind. The scene that befell his eyes chilled him to the bone.

The entirety of Balgruuf the Greater's court, including the Jarl himself, was clustered around two figures. One was a dark elf, a severe-looking woman clad in toughened leather armor. The other was a badly burnt guardsman, his yellow Whiterun colors blackened with soot. The elf was supporting the guard, whose entire left side was scorched almost beyond recognition. His arm hung in a stump, grizzled and twisted, oozing pus-infected blood. The guard whispered something, his parched mouth barely able to form words. The Dunmer woman translated for him.

"He says, a dragon has laid waste to the Western Watchtower," her clear, strong voice rang out, transforming the whispers of worry and confusion from the crowd into a stunned silence. "The garrison there is all but destroyed! We must send reinforcements immediately!" She looked to the Jarl.

Clad in gold-lined fur, with a grouchy face that might have been carved from stone, Balgruuf towered over his inferiors, the very picture of nord resolve. This was certainly helped by his relative positioning: he'd remained at the top of the steps that led to the dining area while the others clustered around the wounded guard. Drake stifled a smile at the familiar trappings of self-important royalty.

"Irileth," the Jarl growled down at the dark elf, whose attempt to stand at attention nearly knocked down the wounded man she supported, "You will lead a team to drive away the beast. Bring it down if you can, but it must not reach the farmlands, let alone the city walls!"

"My Jarl!" cried Farengar, his face the epitome of delight and excitement, "Let me go as well! I must see it with my own eyes! Imagine what we might learn-"

"I will not throw my court wizard into a battle with a dragon!" Balgruuf interrupted him, his booming voice ricocheting off the walls, "You are too important. You will stay and work on the tablet." Drake felt a tiny bit of satisfaction as he saw Farengar's face wilt. Then he realized the implications of the Jarl's words: so he, too, knew of the Dragonstone..?

"I will go in his stead," Trystane's voice rang out clear and strong, interrupting his thought process. She took a step forward, placing her hands on her hips and thrusting her head high. "I have some skill in offensive magic, which I am sure will prove useful." The Jarl turned his icy gaze upon her, but she did not shrink before him.

All of a sudden he became aware that Jakt was no longer at his side, but had stepped forward. Drake felt his stomach sink, but it was too late to stop him.

"I too will go," said the young, foolish Nord. His voice was soft and steady. "I have faced a dragon before, at Helgen."

If the room had been marginally quiet before, now it was deadly silent. Balgruff and Jakt stared at each other for a long, hard second. The older nord looked down at Jakt with a mixture of disdain and appraisal, clearly sizing him up. Jakt's visage quickly became brash and fiery, the byproduct of undefeated youth. Neither of them spoke. Even Drake had to admit the silence was electrifying.

"Very well," growled the Jarl, "Let it be known that I, Balgruuf the Greater, did not force you to risk your lives for my city. Now go, drive the beast into the mountains, and rid us of its scourge!"

The crowd dispersed in a flurry of motion. The injured soldier somehow found his way into the arms of a priestess of Kynareth, who led him away. The dark elf, Irileth, was shouting commands to a rapidly assembling compliment of guardsmen. He spied Jakt, striding over to join them. Drake elbowed his way over to the Nord and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"What in the name of Akatosh do you think you're doing?!" he whispered fiercely, forcing the nord to turn around and resisting the urge to claw out his eyes.

Jakt turned to him, a lopsided grin eking its way onto his face. He said, in a low, almost joking voice:

"Going to kill a dragon."

* * *

"Out of the question," raged the imperial as he pranced along besides him, his feet practically hovering due to his frantic consternation. The guards that marched along before them, including the imposing dark elf woman, paid the slight man no second thought.

"You're already marching with us," Jakt reminded him, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, "We're almost to the gate, for Talos's sake."

"Watch it," the red-haired sorceress cut in icily, as she walked at his left, "That's not a name you want to say too loudly around here."

He started to turn towards her to argue, but Drake grabbed his shoulder again. "I'm not throwing my life away! We just got _paid, _Jakt, now let's beat it! That's how it works! You're lucky I haven't even taken off already!"

"Someone has to do something, Gods damn it," Jakt said, trying to contain the strain of helplessness in his voice. Truthfully, he was terrified, and did not know what in Oblivion he was doing. But something deep inside him, some spark of ambition, of greatness and foolishness, seemed to be burning brighter than ever. For the first time in his admittedly young life he felt something stirring inside him, the grinding clockwork of destiny finally turning his way. It was electric and terrifying, and he could not stop himself.

"Haven't you heard the stories?" Drake began again, a plea lodged in his voice. He scrambled around to Trystane, who was nearly succeeding in outdistancing the both of them.

"Listen, Trystane-" he began, but she cut him off.

"It's Lysana," she barked. "Don't call me by that name."

Her sudden and severe reproach caused him to recoil momentarily, but he swooped back in again for another try.

"Lysana, then. What does the return of the dragons mean? For Skyrim, or for Tamriel, and so forth?"

She turned to regard him coldly, then reversed herself to stare at Jakt for a moment.

"It is bad."

"Bad? The Eight damn you woman, hecan _probably_ figure that out for himself!"

She ignored him, then spoke again, breaking eye contact. "It is said, in the ancient Nord legends, that the dragons' return heralds the end of all time."

"Of all time?" Jakt asked in confusion.

"She's talking about the _apocalypse, _you dolt!" Drake was positively livid, his eyes wide, his mouth nearly foaming. "Which is why we should be taking the money and heading as far away as we can!"

Jakt stopped and spun to face Drake. The other guards marched on ahead, but Lysana faltered and turned to wait. "Listen, Quintus," he began, taking the smaller man's shoulders in his hands and holding him at arm's length. Drake froze up when Jakt called him by first name, as he'd hoped. "We can't do this without you. I'll bet you're twice the shot than any of those lousy guards. Your bow will give you the range; all you have to do is squeeze off a few shots and _keep your head down_." Jakt smiled, hoping that it appeared the least bit genuine. "Besides, I'm betting you're as curious as I am to see a real live dragon."

Drake still looked skeptical, so Jakt played his trump card. "Imagine adding 'dragonslayer' to your title.. and the fame and fortune that would follow."

He released the man, clapped him on the shoulder, then rejoined Lysana and rushed to catch up with the rest of their merry band of dragon hunters. Suddenly he became aware of Drake, jogging alongside them. He was repeating one word, over and over.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

It was noon by the time their motley band reached the Western Watchtower, and the scene that greeted them was one of devastation. The structure, an unbecoming, rough-hewn, circular tower, still stood, but great gaping chunks of stone were missing from its sides, and instead were strewn along the surrounding area. Large swathes of grassland had been charred by long, lateral sheets of fire. The mangled remains of wooden bulwarks added to the cacophony of destruction. A few corpses decorated the scene, their telltale yellow uniforms charred and blackened. There was no dragon in sight.

Jakt reached behind his back and drew his sword. He'd held onto the black draugr's greatsword, his own blade lost in the depths of Bleak Falls Barrow. He'd planned on selling it in Whiterun, for it was heavier than he liked, and carried the faint stench of dusty, dead flesh. But it was well balanced, and frigid to the touch, clearly powerfully enchanted with some sort of ice magic. And besides, the extra length would come in handy against a dragon - if he got the chance to actually use it. The others followed suit, drawing their own weapons, half of the guardsmen brandishing bows.

"Spread out into small groups," yelled Irileth, the dark elf, who Jakt surmised was some sort of battlefield commander. She certainly looked the part - hardened by experience, and unnecessarily harsh. "If you see it, take cover first, and then yell out its position."

A tense moment passed as Jakt, Lysana and Drake huddled close together. The party began to fan out into small groups, moving to surround the watchtower, their heads tilted skyward. Lysana was whispering something underneath her breath, with her hands clasped together. Drake's mouth was wired shut, his expression taught. He scanned the skies desperately, as his fingers favored his taut bowstring. The silence continued for a long moment, broken only by the faint rustle of grass swaying in the wind.

Just as Jakt entertained thoughts that the beast had fled the scene, that the danger to Whiterun had passed, a huge form detached itself from behind the watchtower and took to the air. There was a whooshing sound as it raced over their heads, fifty yards above them. Then a piercing roar split the air. Jakt twisted his head around to catch a glimpse.

It was a dragon, all right, mottled green this time, perhaps smaller than the one at Helgen, and with less spikes protruding from its lithe, reptilian body. It stretched its leathery wings and flapped them hard, beating furiously at the crisp air in order to gain altitude.

"_Dragon!_" screamed a guard, _"_North of us!"

"Gods help us, look at size of that thing!"

"How in Oblivion are we supposed to fight _that!?"_

"Stow it! You are soldiers, not children!" Irileth yelled, her voice harsh and fearless as she rallied her stupefied guards. "Shields up, men! Archers, notch your arrows but hold your fire! _Wait until it dives_!"

Jakt watched, his heard pounding, his mouth open and tongue dry, as the beast circled around to face men crowded together into small groups, crouching, readying their arrows and raising their shields. The dragon seemed to study them for a moment, flapping its wings lazily, its head angled sideways in a manner one might call curious. Then it made up its mind, flapped once, and dived.

The scene exploded into chaos. A group of guards abruptly lost their nerve and broke apart, running for whatever small cover they could find. A few loosed their arrows too soon, watched them fall short, and struggled to reload their bows in time. But it was too late, for the dragon was upon them.

With a gout of flame it roasted one of the fleeing men alive: he staggered, screaming, then fell to his stomach and burned. At the lowest point of its dive, it caught another man in its hind claws, lifting him up and then crunching him to death with a powerful contraction of its muscled legs. His broken body, reddened by deep lacerations, tumbled from its grasp as it flapped upwards again. Jakt felt a tiny misting of blood on his face as he turned away from the grisly scene. He said a silent prayer, thanking the divines that he, Drake and Lysana were out of range. Roaring triumphantly, the dragon climbed into the sky.

"It's coming around for another pass!" Irileth shouted, trying desperately to bring order to the panicking men. "Quickly! Shields up, form a wall! Archers at the ready!"

Some fifteen yards away, The remaining guards organized themselves into a small shield wall, the archers running to crouch behind them. Their formation looked awfully pitiful compared to the great beast they were supposed to be hunting. Jakt prepared to sprint towards them, but stopped when he felt Lysana's hand on his bare arm. He turned to find her eyes glowing light green, then watched her shudder and sigh as as a cool, calming sensation suddenly washed over him. She released him, and he looked down at his arm to see a shimmering green aura spread all over his body. It crackled and then began to slowly fade. He looked to Drake, who was similarly adorned, then looked back to the mage with a question on his lips.

"Stoneskin," she explained, with what could have been a shy smile. "It will absorb the brunt of the dragon's breath." He did not have the time to thank her, for at that minute, the dragon began to dive once again. He started towards the shield wall, but stopped immediately, knowing then that it was too late to help them.

This time, the archers loosed their arrows at exactly the right moment, and five tiny projectiles soared skyward to impact somewhere on the dragon's huge body. Three simply bounced off its hard scales, but two lodged themselves in its left wing. Jakt thought he heard it bark in surprise, but it stayed its course and met the shield wall head on. What followed was pure carnage.

Wood splintered and men screamed as the dragon plowed into them, forcing its way upwards and raking both of its huge back claws against the tiny phalanx. The formation abruptly collapsed: three of the guards were tossed upwards, mangled and bleeding, while the rest were thrown onto their backs. The dragon's long, lathe-like tail, wider than a man's thigh even at its very tip, whipped across, catching any man unfortunate enough to remain on his feet. With a triumphant roar it climbed skyward again, circling around the tower. When it did not immediately turn to prepare for a third dive, Jakt realized what it was doing. _Its toying with us. _

Jakt sprinted to the pile of human wreckage and helped those guards that could still stand up to their feet. His two companions followed. They were losing, and someone needed to pull them together. Irileth lay face down some five yards away, thrown clear by the dragon's tail, either unconscious or dead. He looked to Lysana, whose wide fearful eyes betrayed her dishonestly calm face, then to Drake, who had yet to loose a single arrow, his lips pressed so tight that they had turned white. This was it - it was either organize and fight back, or burn.

"Drake!" He shouted to the listless imperial, "Take every remaining archer and climb the tower. When it gets into range, aim for the wings." he reached over and pounded the imperial on his shoulder. "GO!"

Drake snapped out of his stupor in an instant, racing over to the two surviving archers, and the three of them bolted to the watchtower.

He turned to the mage. "How good are your lightning bolts?"

"Stronger than a thunderstorm," she replied, her voice quavering ever so slightly.

"Stay behind us," he instructed her, then turned to the remaining men. There were four of them, one with a battle axe, the rest of them armed with sword and shield. "The rest of you! Take cover next to the watchtower!" he yelled. He sprinted the twenty yards to the tower, throwing himself against the wall. The others followed suit. Just as they piled into the tower's protective shadow, the dragon appeared overhead, bearing down on them with a screech. Luckily, they were close enough to the structure so that the dragon had to veer off at the last second, its poorly-aimed angle of approach frustrating its attempt to dive. It sent a blast of flame flying over their heads, which impacted harmlessly against the hard stone of the tower, then began to climb upwards into the sky.

"Now, form up!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, "Protect the mage!"

Piling forward, the three shield bearers locked together. Jakt turned to Lysana, but saw that further instruction was hardly necessary.

"I think I know what you have in mind," she snapped, her hand already crackling with energy. He and the axe-bearer took their places at her sides, their bulk shielding her from view and harm.

By huddling them close enough to the tower, Jakt had ensured that the dragon could not dive on them. He knew, somehow, that the beast likely would not sacrifice its airborne advantage by landing and engaging them on solid ground. Which meant it would have to hover in one place in order to rain fire down on them - thereby presenting a large, relatively immobile target.

Sure enough, the dragon soon wheeled into view. It hovered some thirty yards above the ground, roughly the same height as the watchtower, as it zeroed in on its prey. Flapping its wings frantically to keep its huge bulk in the sky, it angled its head down at them and roared a furious challenge. The shriek echoed through the nearby mountains and sent cold shivers of fear scurrying down Jakt's spine. But he and the rest of his guardsmen stood their ground.

There was a _whoosh _as the dragon sucked in a hefty breath. At that moment, Jakt and the other four men broke ranks to reveal the sorceress, a sizzling blue bolt of lightning dancing its way all over her body. She raised her right hand, pointed with index and middle finger, and loosed the deadly bolt. It struck the dragon straight in the face. A half second later, there was a yell from the top of the tower, and a volley of arrows came sailing down to pierce its left wing.

The dragon aborted its breath in confusion, roaring as it staggered in mid air. Its wings beat disharmoniously as it sagged to the left, struggling to remain airborne itself. Its neck twisted in agony as the sorceress's deadly bolt worked its way down its spine and dissipated painfully across its abdomen.

Lysana stepped forward, shouted a few words, arms stretched forward with palms facing out. A fireball blossomed, larger than a man's head, then shot forward. Jakt watched as it projected through the air, impossibly slow, to impact with the dragon's injured wing, blowing a sizable hole in the thin, leathery skin. As if right on cue, a second volley of arrows followed the fireball.

The combined barrage proved too much for the dazed beast, and it veered left and down. The guards cheered around him as it smashed into the ground, screeching horribly, scratching an oblong crater into the earth.

"It's grounded!" Jakt shouted to his allies. "Don't let it take off again!"

He raised his sword high and sprinted towards the downed dragon, screaming at the top of his lungs. The guardsmen followed him, weapons ready to strike, their voices blending together into triumphant harmony.

Their battle cries turned to screams as the dragon righted itself, angled its head towards them, and breathed a deadly gout of flame right into their path. Fire licked at Jakt's vision as he struggled forward. The air around him grew deathly hot and crackled, but his own skin remained untouched: as she had predicted, Lysana's stoneflesh spell was absorbing the worst of the attack. The cool and calming sensation gradually abated as he felt the dragon fire burning through the enchantment, the second skin curling and flaking off in husks like paper-thin bark off a burning log. Then the barrage was over.

He chanced a look back to see his four compatriots: the luckier among them rolled and twisted, stamping out flames, while the unlucky ones clawed feebly at their burning skin or smoking lifelessly in a fetal heap. Lysana sat nearby, dazed but apparently unharmed. He turned back towards the dragon to see it eyeing him curiously, its head cocked to one side. It seemed surprised that he had survived the deadly flame. There was still a gap between them - perhaps ten feet. Jakt knew that his second skin was gone: nothing would spare him from another fiery assault.

As the dragon sucked in another breath, preparing to unleash one last deadly firestorm, Jakt played his last, most desperate card. Running full pelt at the dragon, he screamed, at the top of his lungs, a single word.

"FUS!"

There was a ear-splitting _crack_ as the word left his mouth and careened towards the dragon, building momentum: he could see shockwaves rippling through the air, cascading outwards. The wall of force hit the dragon squarely on its nose, forcing its snapping jaw sideways. It let out a grunt of confusion, giving Jakt the time to circumvent its head. By the time it had recoiled, he was on one side of its outstretched neck. He raised his sword high and brought it down with all his might.

The dragon screamed in pain, a deafening, pitiful wail, as his blade buried itself deep into its neck. Placing his boot on its scaly hide, he wrenched the sword free and, quick as a flash of light, swung it right down at the same spot. The blade sheered straight through neck-bone only to lodge itself in the meaty muscle tissue on the other side. The dragon began to convulse, wrenching the sword from Jakt's hands, showering him with droplets of blood. He leapt clear of its shaking body, a frantic tumble of wings and scales, then turned to watch as its last, desperate throes became weaker and weaker. It tried to open its mouth to scream, but instead produced only a gurgle, accompanied by a fountain of black blood. A final, wet gargle escaped its throat, and then the beast lay still.

Jakt breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and felt a rush of exhaustion. Fighting to stay upright, he turned to see his remaining comrades limping towards him. Two guards, sporting varying degrees of burns and carrying a severely battered but breathing Irileth, cheered hoarsely as they made their way. Drake and his two archers jogged up to survey the scene, their faces wide-eyed and full of disbelief. Drake himself seemed fit to burst. Lysana padded up beside him, her eyebrows raised, something awfully close to amazement playing about her face. Then, all of a sudden, one of the men let out a gasp and pointed beyond him, towards the corpse. The noise quickly turned into a chorus of alarm.

Jakt turned around, fearing the worst, only to be greeted by a peculiar sight. The dragon's corpse wasn't moving - not with anything resembling life, in any case. Instead, it seemed to be… disintegrating. Yellow flame engulfed the dragon's body as its scales broke off and floated upwards, burning away to nothing. The air twisted and crackled around the body, just like an open fire, but Jakt took a step forward and discovered that it didn't seem to be giving off heat. All of a sudden, a fierce wind circled out of the body, carrying tendrils of yellow flame that traced swirls and arches through the air. Jakt followed the path of the ropey, effusive fire as it twisted towards the sky, dumbstruck. Then, all at once, the many tendrils flashed towards him, converging on his chest. He threw back his head and howled, unable to stop the barrage of energy as it arced into him, flooding every corner of his body with a boiling, weightless sensation. Unable to control himself, his eyesight flashed white…

_He was stretching out his powerful wings, soaring high above the ground, splitting the air with a roar that could fell mountains, his mammoth, scaly body rippling with corded muscle, prepared to snap and tear and gnash at anything that dare impede him… To be alive, to fly again, after so many long years of blackness and Oblivion… Looking out over the horizon, he loosed a single gout of flame that seemed to stretch on forever, a boast of invincibility, a challenge to the heavens… Then, there, at the apex of his power, his domain stretching out above him, he looked down to see tiny mortals, scrambling with futile aplomb, desecrating the face of Nirn with their foul steps… _

The vision faded, and Jakt stumbled to his knees, dazed, humbled by the sudden return to his two-legged form. Drake and Lysana helped him to his feet, with looks of concern he found rather unbecoming of the both of them. Before him lay the bleached bones of the dragon corpse, completely stripped of all their flesh.

"What… happened?" he breathed, turning to face the others.

"You feinted," said Lysana in a quiet voice. She was looking at him curiously.

There was a moment of silence. Then, one of the men, a towering Nord built like a granite wall, stepped forward. His mouth agape, he struggled to find his words. At last they poured out, laced with wonder and foreboding.

"You.. You devoured his soul. You... are Dragonborn."


	4. Three in Whiterun

"I don't know what came over me," Jakt began, for the twelfth time, his words slurring together. "All of a sudden, I knew, _this was it_. It was us or him, that great scaly beast." He gritted his teeth, brought up his fists, then straightened up and laughed, and the pretty redguard girl who he was regaling this time laughed with him.

Quintus Drake chuckled to himself before throwing back his head and knocking back another glass of spiced wine. The kid deserved his moment. They were all heroes, but _he_ was Dragonborn.

Whatever in Oblivion that meant.

Somehow, it seemed as if every single inhabitant of Whiterun had made it into the Bannered Mare that night. If they hadn't been at the Jarl's little impromptu ceremony, then they had heard about the company's deed quickly enough. Afterwards, the crowds had swarmed to congratulate their new heroes, carrying them to the second ring of the city to a huge, blazing fire that had been built in their honor, and rolling out barrels of ale to crack open. All the attention was making Drake mighty uncomfortable, until a friendly nord offered him a drink, and then another, and then another… and pretty soon the evening had become a drunken haze, from which he was just beginning to emerge.

When nighttime finally fell and the celebration moved inside, Hulda the Innkeeper had pulled out all the stops, bringing out barrel upon barrel of Honningbrew Mead, Colovian Brandy, her finest Alto Wine, and even some bottles of Blackbriar Reserve, which made Drake think fondly of his most recent abandoned home. They drank to the living heroes, they drank to those who had sacrificed their lives, to those who lay injured in the Temple of Kynareth, to the dragon itself, who had given its own life and blessed them, indirectly, with such fine feats of daring… at that point it was all very much out of hand. The nords, it seemed, enjoyed every opportunity to crack open a barrel.

As it turned out, Jakt had a taste for Dragon's Breath Mead, which everyone found hilariously appropriate, which in turn meant he was never without a full glass. He was raging drunk, clearly unused to any sort of hero worship, and trying in vain to retain a sense of humility. Every fifteen minutes or so someone would shout "Dragonborn!" and the whole room would break out into a chorus of a popular nord folk song and dancing around him. It was altogether too much for him to comprehend, clearly, and eventually he sat himself down at a table and started rambling to anyone who would listen. This proved to be no small number of people, who came and went as they pleased.

Drake's two archers, who he found out were named Torvald and Vigge, kept headbutting each other, then trying to headbutt him, which left his head aching - a malady only cured by more spirits. The disease soon spread to a number of nord men, and friendly headbutts turned to squabbles, which inevitably broke out into fistfights. Drake slithered away from the violence and sat himself down at the bar next to a long-legged, tough looking Nord girl who looked vaguely familiar. She kept drunkenly calling herself something that sounded like 'Carl' and succeeded in matching him drink for drink. He found 'Carl' very attractive, in a distinctly nordic way, and was quite happy to be talking to her when Lysana Trystane plopped herself down next to him.

"Well well," he said, the words dripping out of him like coagulated honey, "If it isn't our friendly little mage. Have some brandy."

He pushed a glass towards her, which she took gladly, to his surprise. 'Carl', sensing the sudden shift in Drake's affections, rose and left to join the crowd chanting over two half-naked wrestling Nords. He paid her little mind, instead watching as Lysana took the mug in both hands and drained it. She looked splendid: She had traded her robes for a simple belted dress, and combed her shortish red hair so straight that it shone pale gold in the candlelight. Unfortunately, Drake was entirely too drunk to make any further progress on his quest to mentally undress her.

"This is _good_!" she purred after the brandy was all gone, licking her lips in satisfaction. Drake's stomach turned a somersault at the action. "I can't remember the last time I had some fun." She turned towards him, placed a hand on his arm, and actually _giggled_.

By the gods, Lysana was drunk! Or at least a little tipsy. The mood-altering effects of alcohol on women never ceased to amaze Drake. He had been quite prepared to pull out all the stops, but maybe that wouldn't be necessary.

"You look absolutely radiant," he said, shaking his head, "You should wear girl's clothes more often. Unless, of course, the College frowns on dress that isn't grey and bulky."

"The College frowns on a lot of things," She replied flirtatiously, her freckled cheeks flushed.

"Is that what brought you south? Tired of the chafing rules? Or the miserable cold, for that matter?" he asked. He found himself genuinely curious, for some reason.

"Well," she began, tracing her finger around her empty mug, "There aren't many… eligible bachelors in Winterhold, if you must know." she giggled again. "At least, not under the age of fifty."

"Too many books," Drake supplied helpfully, "Not enough sunlight, or mead." This was too easy!

"You know, Drake," she said, smiling in a manner that Drake found entirely seductive.

"Call me Quint," he interrupted her, surprising himself. He hated being called Quint.

"Quint. I'm surprised you're still here. You don't strike me as the type who… sticks around for breakfast, so to speak." She winked.

"Not usually," he laughed playfully, "but I have a good feeling this time."

"Of course," she said conversationally, leaning forward, "Now, are we talking about me, or our mutual friend there?" She gestured towards Jakt. He turned to look at him. The young nord was leaning awfully close to the redguard girl.

"Oh, him?" he asked incredulously, turning back to face the breton sorceress. "Let me cut you in on a little secret, lass. If we stick close to him, that boy is going to make us very, _very_ rich. And maybe even a little famous!" He started to laugh, but faltered when she failed to laugh along with him.

"Well then," she started, her cold eyes betraying her light, conversational tone, "You'd better keep a close watch on him. All of that wealth and fame might go to his head." She pointed over his shoulder again.

Drake turned back only to find that Jakt and the girl had disappeared. His drunken brain naturally fearing the worst, he forced himself upright and pounded over towards their table, elbowing his way through the rowdy, drunken crowd…

But Jakt was nowhere to be found. Drake shook his head, putting his mind at ease. The girl was a barmaid, after all, he'd seen her handing out mugs… they couldn't have gone far. He would find him in the morning. He trundled back over to the bar, ready to express his confidence in this plan to Trystane, but she too had disappeared. _Damn. _Shrugging his shoulders, he prepared to delve into the gaggle of drunken bodies, hoping to find 'Carl' again.

* * *

Jakt slowly became aware of a cool breeze wafting over his forehead as he drifted back into consciousness. The bed was soft, though, and his head burned like wildfire. He rolled onto his side, away from the source of the cool air. Somehow, the breeze persisted. Aching and confused, he rolled onto his back again and chanced opening his eyes, only to be blinded by an agonizing whiteness that felt like daggers stabbed up through his eyes and into his brain. With a grunt he screwed his eyes shut and slapped at his face, trying to ward off the cool air that seemed to be hovering over his head.

All of a sudden the breeze became a blizzard, an icy cold barrage of sleet and howling winds pelting and twisting at his face.

"What in Oblivion?" he growled, forcing himself upright and opening his eyes. Sunlight poured in from an open window, sending fresh spikes of pain plunging into his sensitive, aching head. He turned away from the window only to find a hand hovering over him, from which the cold air had been emanating. The hand was attached to the breton mage girl, Lysana, who stood at the side of his bed. She lowered her hand and tucked it somewhere in her robe, her face expressionless.

"What was that for?" he thundered, altogether too loudly. His own words rang in his ears, sending more agonizing shocks careening through his head. He resisted the urge to clutch his head with both hands.

"You weren't waking up," she said, slowly and quietly. Her gaze inched downwards for a second, her face turning ever so slightly pink. Jakt followed her eyes with his own and discovered that he was completely naked, bedclothes nowhere to be found, his manhood standing at rapt attention.

With a yelp he forced himself to his feet and struggled to cover himself. Lysana blushed crimson and looked away, leaning over and grasping a blanket that had been flung over to the far side of the room. She handed it to him without saying a word. There was a painful awkward silence as he wrapped it around his waist. He let out a fake cough to indicate he was done, and she turned back around to face him. Her flushed, embarrassed cheeks clashed violently with her hair.

"Now then," He said, his chest tight, his head a little too groggy to process their mutual embarrassment. "Uh, what happened last night?"

"You, my young friend, got very drunk," came the reply from behind him. He spun to see Drake framed in the doorway. He had dark circles under his eyes and was clutching a frozen chunk of ice to his forehead.

"How was she?" he asked, giving a wink that looked more like a painful wince.

Jakt looked around, unsure of who he was talking about. Drake laughed softly.

"I'll be damned," he said, "You've just been used, haven't you, chap?" he came over to Jakt, punching him playfully on the arm. "It ain't so bad once you get used to it, trust me." He laughed again, a little too loudly, then winced once more. Suddenly Jakt remembered how he'd gotten up to this room… Feeling fresh waves of embarrassment washing over him, he groaned, and Drake laughed a third time. It was a good-natured laugh, at least.

"It's almost noon," Lysana spoke up sharply, interrupting their camaraderie. Jakt turned back to her, seeing that she'd regained her composure somewhat. "And past time we got moving."

Jakt struggled to comprehend her sentence. "What do you mean, 'we?'" he said, sounding more accusing than he really felt. He expected Drake to chime in, but the imperial remained silent. Then his memories of the day before came flooding back. The dragon, the Jarl's speech, the numerous stories and myths and explanations… not to mention the party, and the serving girl… It was all a little too much for him. Feeling lightheaded and embarrassed, he sat down. Lysana's haughty, pointed face softened a little.

"Get dressed," she ordered, "We can talk about this over lunch."

* * *

Finally, the Dragonborn loped downstairs, fully dressed this time in his simple Stormcloak armor. Lysana repressed any lingering embarrassment as she watched him approach. Drake shifted uncomfortably in the seat beside her, muttering something under his breath, but she did not turn to look at him.

Doubt welled up inside her as Jakt threaded his way through the crowd that made up the Bannered Mare's noon rush. He nodded as a couple of strangers greeted him, accepting their congratulations awkwardly. She had to admit: he did not look like the _Dovahkiin_, the Dragon of the North, the mantle of Tiber Septim's legacy. He was lean for a nord, a little shorter than average, and the beard that decorated his face was a scraggly affair. And he was young - no older than she, she reminded her doubtful, nagging mind - but he clearly lacked discipline, unlike herself. The College had no patience for sloppy, time-wasting behavior, and neither did she.

At the same time, she had watched him come alive in the battle at the watchtower: he had good instincts, even if they were rash and untempered, and he had rallied the despairing guardsmen to victory with an air of leadership. The spark of potential was there.

Lysana repressed her silent conflict as he reached their table and sunk into the chair across from her. She took the tall glass of water resting before her, chilled with frost magic, and slid it to him. He smiled gratefully and gulped down the whole glass in a display of truly horrible table manners.

"Right then," he sighed, placing the glass back down and wiping his drenched lips with a furred gauntlet. "What makes you think traveling together is such a great idea? If that was what you were suggesting."

He locked eyes with her. They were soft and green: young eyes, hopeful, but with a twinge of sadness. Perhaps he was not as inexperienced and naive as she thought.

"Look, lad," Drake cut in, before she could answer. "I actually agree with this overblown magical trollop." Insulted at his words, she flashed a deadly glare his way, but the imperial ignored her and continued on. "You're not just a worthless nobody anymore, begging your pardon. You're the _Dragonborn. _You're going to need backup!"

"I can take care of myself."

Drake smiled and shook his head, jabbing his finger at the young nord. "Don't lock me out just yet, lad. Traveling with you was just becoming interesting!" he stood and swept his hands out before him in a grand gesture. "Imagine all the dragons out there that need slaying! And all the wealthy persons who need them slain, if you get my drift." He sat back down, a dazzling smile on his face, his hangover apparently forgotten. "And you really want to try and tackle the beasties on your own?"

Lysana raised an eyebrow at him as he flicked his eyes back and forth between his two table companions. She reminded herself of their conversation the night before: clearly, Drake was not one to be trusted. He was, at best, a liar and a thief, seeking to profit off of momentous happenings far too grand in scale for him to comprehend. And yet, the competitive atmosphere of the College had taught her to utilize everything at her disposal. He might prove useful after all.

Jakt sighed, rubbing his forehead, a seemingly conciliatory gesture. She took the opportunity and cut in.

"He's actually right," she said, "You _will_ need our help if you are to confront their return. You have a part to play-"

"Spare me," Jakt growled, his tone turning callous and bitter. "I heard enough of this talk from that fool wizard and all the rest of this Gods-forsaken city. I didn't _ask_ to be the Dragonborn, I didn't ask for _any_ of this responsibility!"

He lifted his empty glass up as he spoke and brought it down hard on the table for emphasis. It shattered upon impact, and Jakt grunted in surprise. In a flash a table boy appeared at his side, sweeping the shattered glass into a bucket.

"It's no trouble," he said, smiling down at Jakt. "No trouble at all for the Dragonborn!"

The rest of the tavern, in a quiet yet earnest echo of the previous night, raised their drinks in unison, and toasted him with a "Ho, Dragonborn!" As the serving boy hurried away, Jakt groaned and put his head in his hands. Lysana felt herself smiling despite the gravity of their conversation. Beside her, Drake chuckled. Still, she could feel Jakt's consternation, the fear and uncertainty that lurked behind his mostly stoic facade.

"Like it or not, Jakt," she began, trying a new tactic, "You are the Dragonborn. I saw you use the Thu'um on that dragon. Not to mention… whatever happened afterwards." she cleared her throat, clearly made uneasy even just thinking about his display of soul eating. "Do you know how difficult it is to learn the way of the voice?" She saw him lift his head out of his hands to stare balefully at her. "It takes even the most disciplined, hardworking students _decades_ to produce something like what you shouted in the course of an afternoon."

Drake evidently saw where she was going. "If I was you, lad," he began, a twinkle in his eye, "I'd want to learn to control it, to use it. Just imagine! Shouting your enemies to pieces!"

Jakt perked up. "Ulfric Stormcloak," he breathed.

Drake faltered. "What?"

"Haven't you heard the tales?" the young nord began, his breath short with growing excitement. "Ulfric used the Voice to slay the High King. I'll bet he can teach it to me."

Lysana opened her mouth to dissent, but Drake beat her to the punch. "Damn it all, Jakt," he said, shaking his head frantically. "That's as good as throwing in with him! You realize what Ulfric could do if the Dragonborn, the nord hero of legend, or whatever, was on his side?"

"Of course I do," Jakt replied, his voice turning harsh. "He could unite Skyrim against the threat of Imperial oppression, not to mention wipe the Thalmor off the face of the map."

Drake looked incredulous. While he struggled to come up with a reply, Lysana cut in again.

"Look, Jakt," she began, "I'm not sure throwing in with Ulfric is a good idea right now. For one, he studied the Thu'um with the Greybeards, or so the story goes, and they're supposedly the masters of the voice. There's no way, between fighting in the Great War, taking and holding Markarth, waging a war against the Empire, _and_ ruling as Jarl of Windhelm, that he had anywhere near the time to devote to learning the ways of the voice.

"Secondly," she continued, frowning as she spoke, "It's probably best for the Dragonborn to remain neutral. The dragons won't wait while Ulfric and the Empire squabble over the crown. Maybe when we know more about the threat they pose, then we can choose one side or the other."

Jakt looked unconvinced. "How can you be sure this civil war and the dragon reappearances are just coincidental?" he asked skeptically. "The way I see it, that dragon arrived in Helgen just in time to save Ulfric from the headsman's axe."

"So, let me get this straight," Drake replied, his face skeptical, bordering on smug. "You think the dragons' return is some sort of divine providence, the Eight throwing in their lot with Ulfric Stormcloak?" He laughed spitefully.

Jakt recoiled. "It's possible," he said defensively.

Drake shook his head, grinning, looking to Lysana for agreement. When she chose to remain quiet, his laughter faded into a sigh.

"Listen, lad," he started, his tone well-meaning, if a little condescending. "Windhelm is a long journey from here. In the meantime, the Throat of the World-" he gestured out the open window to the colossal mountain towering off in the distance - "isn't nearly as far. And besides, the Greybeards might have answers to questions like that, answers that Ulfric don't know himself."

Lysana caught his eye, mouthing a quiet word of thanks. Drake obviously understood the importance of what he spoke, for as he met her gaze she could tell he was resisting the urge to wink lewdly. Instead, his eyes shifted back Jakt, who sat silently, absorbing his words.

Finally, the young nord spoke. "You have a point," he admitted grudgingly. "The Greybeards most likely know more about all this. But none of this explains why I ought to let you tag along." He pointed at Drake. "Him I understand - he just wants a slice of the glory, and as far as I'm concerned, he's welcome to it."

Drake smiled sheepishly and shrugged. Jakt ignored him and leaned forward, staring into Lysana's face. "But what about you? What's your angle?" his voice was quiet, more curious than antagonistic. _At least he isn't half as stubborn as half the nords I know_, Lysana thought to herself as she absorbed his words; _he can admit when he is wrong, it seems._ But then, admitting he was wrong was not the same thing as admitting that she was right, something that a great many people who knew Lysana seemed to have trouble with.

She leaned back into her chair, unsure of how to answer his query. The College of Winterhold liked to keep to its own: a fact notorious throughout Skyrim, and one that had earned it a lot of ill will, perhaps deservedly so. Revealing their official business was like to get her a sharp reprimand, at the very best. At the same time, much was at stake. She remained quiet for another minute before Drake, his curiosity piqued as well, chimed in.

"Why were you in Farengar Mammoth-Breath's study when we delivered him the Dragonstone, anyways?" She flicked her eyes to him in annoyance. The imperial was sharper than his immature demeanor let on: most likely a purposeful charade. She cleared her throat and spoke.

"The sudden reappearance of the dragons touched off a whole manner of anomalies and inconsistencies in the flow of magic," she began, aiming to keep her answer short and to the point. "The College soon decided that it was a matter worth looking in to. Farengar, although a mediocre mage, is a worthy scholar, and a bit of an expert on the dragon cults that populated ancient Skyrim. He owed the College a favor, so they sent me out to collect it. I was to be included in any research and discoveries he made into reasons for their reappearance."

She paused. "Call it a hunch, if you will," she said, letting a little sarcasm slip into her tone, "But I figured that traveling with the Dragonborn might lead to some answers a lot faster than traditional research methods."

"Do the higher-ups at the College know about that little decision?" Drake asked, his mouth twitching smugly.

Lysana fought down a surge of wrath at his question, anger not directed at him, but rather towards the College. As if the upper echelon paid her a second thought when they sent her off on their little errand. She tried unsuccessfully to keep the iciness from her voice as she answered him.

"The College _will_ appreciate my prompt results," she said haughtily, pushing her seat backwards and standing up. "They value efficiency and timeliness, unlike petty thieves and drunken mercenaries." She cast a disapproving glare down on the two. Drake shook his head, smiling at the insult. Jakt merely raised his eyebrows.

"Now," she began, placing her hands on her hips, "This little interrogation is over. I suggest we-"

Lysana broke off as a nord female suddenly appeared at their table. She was taller than Lysana, and looked quite strong: her bare arms were toned, and a long, jagged scar rippled over her right bicep. The rest of her body was dressed in steel armor, reinforced with fur and leather and engraved in the nordic fashion. She had a sword belted to her side and a shield swung over her shoulder. She looked young, a feminine nose decorating a striking, angular face that men might find quite attractive, but her hard eyes and set jaw emanated experience. Her hair was darker than that of most nords, falling to brush her shoulders. Two small, ornate hair braids framed either side of her face.

"My thane," she said, bowing low to Jakt. Unsure of what to do, he stood and watched her uneasily.

"Uh," he started, at a loss for words, "Who are you?"

"I am your housecarl," she answered, "Lydia."

All of a sudden Drake stood. "Carl!" he exclaimed, his mouth twisted in a delighted grin. Lydia eyed him in confusion for a second and then turned back to Jakt.

"My what?"

"Your housecarl," she explained, impatience seeping into her tone. "Your sword and shield, and your servant." Lysana could tell right away that she was not a woman who liked to mince words.

"Oh, right," Jakt said, and Lysana could tell from the sudden understanding that flashed on his face that he was just now remembering that Jarl Balgruuf had effectively made him a Thane of Whiterun Hold. "And, uh, what exactly does a housecarl do?"

Lydia straightened up. "I am sworn to travel with you, Thane, to bear your every burden, and protect you and all that you own," she said, her voice clear and strong. "With my life, if necessary."

"What about your Thane's friends?" Drake asked, his voice trim and sardonic, his grin maniacal. "Are you sworn to bear their burdens as well?"

Lydia shot him a look, yet remained quiet. It was one of antagonism, mixed, perhaps, with interest? Lysana, for all her book learning, was hardly an expert in the realm of social interaction. She sighed inwardly. The strange ways of men and women bored her in all but a clinical sense.

Jakt cleared his throat, unsure once more of what to say. Clearly, he had little experience in matters of delegation - off the battlefield, at least. "Right," he began awkwardly, "Well, you look stout," he broke off when Lydia raised an eyebrow. "Er, that is, not _stout, _but rather, you look, ah, quite fit-"

"What he's trying to say is, he'd be honored to have your service," Lysana said, flashing Jakt an annoyed look. They were wasting time.

"Of course, lady mage," Lydia said, inclining her head. There was, to Lysana's relief, none of the usual suspicion that most nords reserved for magic users in her voice.

"Right then," Lysana said, gesturing to the two seated men, "Are we ready to get on the road then?"

Jakt and Drake exchanged a quick glance. The nord sighed, and then stood.

"The Throat of the World it is."

* * *

Jakt spent the afternoon walking next to Lydia, his new charge, trying to familiarize himself with the shieldmaiden. Initially put off by the bizarre and novel experience of having someone under his command, his discomfort faded slowly as they walked and talked. Lydia did most of the talking: she was the first nord he'd spent much time with since he and Ralof had gone their separate ways, and Jakt found himself asking many questions.

In the process he learned a little bit about her background. Unlike Drake and Lysana, who were as tight-lipped as he in that department, Lydia spoke openly about her past. Jakt found her honesty refreshing. She had grown up in Haafingar hold, raised by her now-estranged father, a legionnaire-turned-farmer who had desired a son. A capable soldier, made bitter by the Great War, he had instructed her in the more strategic-minded swordsmanship of the Imperial Legion, rather than the savage, traditional nord manner. By her seventeenth summer, owing to her increasingly drunken and abusive parent, she had run away, finding employ as a sellsword until the worsening political climate of Skyrim forced her to turn to desperate measures.

"Aye, but Jarl Balgruuf runs a tight ship," she was saying, her eyes downcast. "Whiterun hold has no patience for highwaymen, it seems, and his neutral stance on the war leaves him the manpower to come down hard on folk like us." She grinned at him ruefully. "That thrice-damned black elf of his and her guardsmen tracked us down near as soon as we set up shop. They gave the survivors a choice: swear service to the Jarl, or rot in the dungeons. Wasn't a hard choice."

She shook her head, then looked up and smiled at him. It was a warm smile, a carefree smile, despite the hardships of her earlier life. "Housecarl to the Jarl's cronies isn't such a bad job though, begging your pardon, my thane. Little more than a body guard, I am, and my sword-arm serves its purpose well. I guess I have pa to thank for all this after all." She patted her sword hilt good-naturedly and laughed at the perceived irony.

"I never knew my father," Jakt heard himself admit, unthinkingly. Suddenly aware of Lysana walking close in front of them, he clamped his mouth shut. Lydia's emotional honesty was infectious. The breton mage did not register his comment, however, if she'd heard it at all.

"I envy you that, my thane," Lydia said, smiling wryly.

"Please," Jakt started, uncomfortably. "just Jakt is fine."

They made camp before sundown. Lysana insisted they camp off the roads, to avoid patrols or other disturbances, so they traipsed off into the woods until they came to a small clearing. After setting up their furs and bedrolls, Lydia and Drake, who had been giving each other strange looks throughout the evening, went off hunting. Jakt had a sneaking suspicion that "hunting' was some sort of double entendre. So, while he sat laboring over slightly-damp brush and kindling, Jakt found himself alone with the breton mage.

Lysana watched him trying to light a fire for a little bit, then pulled out a book from her satchel. Jakt finished his task and pulled up a log, warming his hands and his feet. He looked over at Lysana, buried in her book, oblivious to the world, and sighed. She was quite pretty, even with her face scrunched up in concentration: her auburn hair, slightly tangled from their afternoon of travel, shone in the firelight, and dancing shadows traced soft outlines of her delicate features.

He tried to think of something to say, but his mind kept drawing blanks. He soon gave up and pulled out his new sword and the whetstone he'd bought along with it, and began to polish and sharpen the blade. He'd sold the draugr's greatsword at Avenicci's in Whiterun, netting himself one of her fine steel longswords in the process. Shorter and lighter than the greatsword, it was nevertheless longer and thinner than his old imperial blade, fashioned with a finely-embroidered crossguard and a hilt wrapped in supple leather. The pommel was carved in the image of a ram's head, with curled horns that made it appear roughly spherical. It was no Greymane, to be sure, but it was well balanced and finely crafted, and did not take long to polish. Jakt could tell that a sharpening was hardly necessary. He ran the whetstone along the blade a few times anyway: the quiet _sssshnkk _of stone on steel was strangely soothing.

Sheathing the sword, he looked over at Lysana. She was looking at him, her brow furrowed, a strange expression on her face.

"What?" he asked, confused. She didn't look annoyed by his noisy fidgeting - rather, she seemed deep in thought.

"Tell me something, Jakt," she asked, her face softening a little. "Are you lettered?"

Jakt laughed before replying. "Yes, actually. Are you surprised?"

Lysana smiled a shy smile, a hint of embarrassment flicking across her face. Something in the back of Jakt's brain _clunked_, like a horseshoe hitting an iron post, at that rare, sweet smile.

"A formal education isn't really the tradition here," she pointed out in response, somewhat reproachfully, her smile twisting into a frown.

"Yeah, well," Jakt answered, furrowing his brow at what could have been a slight, but deciding not to argue. "In my line of work, illiteracy can be damning. Mercenary companies like to prey on the unlettered, filling their written contracts with subterfuge. At worst, it is akin to forced servitude."

Lysana cocked her head. "Doesn't the Fighter's Guild in Cyrodil police that sort of thing?"

Jakt laughed again, but this time with a touch of bitterness. "Hardly, though it tries. The Fighter's Guild is a relic of the Septim Era. Like the Empire itself, its influence waned after the death of the last Septim Emperor. Private companies have no qualms against trickery, once freed from Imperial supervision, as it turns out."

Lysana nodded. "The College used to answer to the Mages Guild in much the same way, before it was disbanded. Or destroyed, rather."

Jakt nodded in reply. There was a brief moment of silence, before Lysana brandished her book, her face slightly bashful, and continued. "You might enjoy this book - I picked it up from the Apothecary while you and the thief peddled your sword. It's about the dragon cults, and the Dragonborn - the ancient nord legend, I mean."

Jakt felt a twinge of dread deep in the pit of his stomach. His reaction must have been visible, for Lysana looked confused and a little awkward as she let the book settle into her lap.

"Ah," Jakt replied, after a beat. "I'm not so sure I want to read that."

"Why not?" Lysana's expression changed from concerned to one of disapproval, a frown snaking its way onto her face.

"Well," Jakt began, trying to put his reluctance into words, "I guess I'm not sure I want to believe it's real. Me being the Dragonborn - it just seems too… colossal to be true."

"Refusing to learn about it doesn't make it any less real," she said, her tone sharp and a hint of scorn in her inflection. "That is why we are going to the Throat of the World, and not to Windhelm, after all."

Jakt shrugged, not meeting her eyes. He heard her _hmmmph _audibly, however, when he deigned to reply. At that moment he couldn't help but feel that he'd failed a test of character. There was a moment of silence as they both stared into the fire. The sun was below the tree line now, and dusk was beginning to settle about.

"So then," Lysana began again. "What purpose brings a company-less mercenary to Skyrim? Seeking to profit, perhaps, from civil strife? Or fleeing reprisal from a slighted guild master?"

Jakt looked at her again. A tendril of anger prickled irritably within him for a second, but he ignored it. She was obviously trying to get at something, or at the very least provoke him.

"I could ask the same of yourself," he started, avoiding her question but meeting her eyes. "Skyrim is hardly receptive to the magic arts, much unlike High Rock or even Cyrodil. And Winterhold is a harsh and unforgiving place, so I'm told - the College even more so."

Lysana _hmmphed_ again. "I expect my answer is the same as yours," she replied shortly. "Quite personal."

Jakt sighed. He did not wish to lapse into uncomfortable silence once more. Instead, he decided to indulge her curiosity, tempered though it was by her standoffish words. "I came here seeking family, I suppose."

"Family? That is… understandable." Her tone suggested she found it otherwise. "But in that case, why are you so intent on seeking out Ulfric Stormcloak and joining his crusade? Has the Empire wronged you so?"

Jakt glared at her, unsure of how to answer without compromising himself. He had no desire to confide in this strange, precocious woman.

"The Empire has wronged us all," he began with conviction that he did not quite feel. "I've seen too many horrors at the hands of the Thalmor _not _to condemn their inaction. And Ulfric Stormcloak seems to be the only one in all of Nirn with the courage to stand up to the both of them."

"Spare me the rhetoric, I have heard it many times," Lysana began scornfully, "At his heart Ulfric is no better than one of your mercenary companies! The Thalmor are a political boon for him, a convenient daedra to rally against. Without a strong Imperial hand to rein him in, he will abuse the trust of his subjects to achieve his own ends." She paused before continuing, narrowing her eyes. "After all, that is the nord way."

Jakt felt his face redden, his mind wheeling at that unfettered condemnation of his people. He opened his mouth to reply, trying to form a retort, but at that minute, Lydia came traipsing up, a dead deer thrown over her shoulder and a grin plastered on her face. Drake followed right after, whistling a tune, his steps jaunty. They both looked a bit disheveled.

"Good evening, lord and lady," Drake began, sweeping up and throwing himself into a grandiose, mocking bow, "Your meal will be ready shortly. We thank you for your kind patronage."

Jakt looked back to Lysana, but she had stood and moved over to the other two, her back to him. Truth be told, he was a little relieved. He had no desire to continue their verbal sparring. Lysana, it seemed, was even less trusting that he.

* * *

A/N: A talky chapter, but necessary! Now that the big bad triumvirate is established, we can get down to business.


End file.
